


American Misfits

by eleanorknows



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Foster Families, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Boys Being Boys, Class Project, Drugs, Excessive Swearing, F/F, Family, First Love, Friendship, Heteronormativity, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mischief, Sexual Inexperience, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-02-17 17:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2318189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleanorknows/pseuds/eleanorknows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High School AU where they're out of the Southside and in the foster care system since young. Mickey's partnered up with Ian Gallagher to do a class project for the next few months and besides the damn cheeky attitude? Oh yeah the kid doesn't talk, ever. The mute and the troublemaker, they make quite the pair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The tags covered most of my bases for where this story goes in the future but I will update if needed, which includes the rating. When/if that time comes, I'll warn everyone in my notes (it definitely won't go past 'M'). 
> 
> Ohh I am excited for this! Things are already mapped out or partly written so I'll try to update regularly...ish?

Seventeen-year-old Mickey Milkovich runs the tip of the baseball ball along the metal fence as he walks, liking the sounds of clinking to match his steps. Back and forth, forth and back – he paces the entire short length from one end to the other in an endless loop. His eyes shift around, making a quick study of the neighborhood just twenty minutes from his own. It looks about the same shit-level poverty and crime that plagues the cockroach lives that is their snow globe existence. So a quaint type of charm is what he means.

It’s well after one in the morning and he can think of a million things he’d rather be doing right now than this, like get dead-out-of-his-mind high. But this involves Mandy too so he can’t screw it up, they only have each other. He promised it would always be the two of them that fucking day they were taken away by DCFS and he plans on keeping it. One more toe out of the line and his foster parents are gonna turn his ass back over to the system and only him, he just knows it.

And after last month’s three-day suspension, Mickey’s on _very_ thin glass. He smirks just thinking about the giant spoon he handed Mister Anderson after their last class of the day, right before he and everyone else walked out to the parking lot. His limp-dick teacher stood frozen in front of his car filled to the brim with the cafeteria’s industrial-sized tubs of pudding, clutching that spoon so hard it bends! The story even made the front page of the local gazette, slow news day – Mandy has it framed in her room! Guess Mickey Milkovich's ain’t got fucking pudding for brains if he can break into a car like that, huh asswipe?

He’s lost in the good feels of the memory, not hearing the sound of footsteps until his eyes meet another alert pair returning his gaze with mild interest. His grip on the baseball bat automatically tightens, ready for the swing as his mind finally catches up with his deadlier reflexes.

Calming down from mad dog attack mode, his eyebrows shoot up as his mouth scrunches up in annoyance, “The fuck, Gallagher! Don’t sneak up on people like that, I almost bashed your dickface head in!”

Ian side-shrugs indifferently, readjusting the backpack slung across one shoulder and then just staring.

“Whatever, man,” Mickey rolls his eyes, “Where the fuck you been? I’ve been dropping by for the last two days trying to catch your ass! That crack-pipe bitch at your door today said she didn’t give a shit and the little girl told me come back now.”

Again the ginger sixteen-year-old shrugs as he stuffs his hands into his front pockets, drawing Mickey’s attention briefly to the color-stained fingers that disappear behind denim.

“Great, that’s just fucking helpful! Thanks. You know why I’m looking for you, we gotta work on that lame-ass project for English,” Mickey grinds out, his patience at its limit immediately.

Without missing a beat, Ian gives him a skeptical look and then grins like a little shit.

Mickey bristles, knowing his reputation for general destruction and being the school fuck-up but not liking it thrown in his face, “You and me, we’re gonna work on this fucking project and it better be good enough for a passing grade, non-fucking-negotiable! You understand?”

Back to what seems to be his standard of shrugging, Ian rocks on the balls of his feet and continues grinning in a cryptic way that pisses Mickey off to think he’s the reason why.

“God, it’s like I’m talking to myself like the fuckin’ nut on sixty-fourth,” Mickey mutters before adding threateningly, “You WILL meet me after school tomorrow at the library ON time! I ain't waiting for you like some little bitch again, got it Your Royal Highness?”

This time Ian nods less apathetically, striding towards the older boy with a curious look before sidestepping towards his darkened house, glancing back briefly as his hand touches the door handle. Mickey's eyes automatically do an slow, appreciative full-body sweep of the redhead before snapping out of it, feeling sheepish and irritated. The front door closes with a quiet click and he's completely alone to loiter again.

Everyone knows Ian Gallagher sees the school therapist on a weekly basis, not sure how that even works since he doesn’t fucking speak. Mickey decides it’s oddly not terrible to finally talk to, well _at_ Gallagher, for the first time. The younger boy was out of class for a therapy session when they were assigned partners for the project and the whole class basically let out a collective sigh of relief like they dodged a bullet or something when the mute and the troublemaker got paired up. Dipshit bastards, good fucking riddance.

Silence's the only thing anyone knows about the redhead. Well that and how he’s always staring out the window, doodling in his notebook. The latter part is more of Mickey’s own observations but the mop of ginger hair in front of the window is hard to ignore when he’s spacing off during English. This better not turn out to be a major pain in his ass. And…maybe there’s a tiny part of him that could be slightly intrigued and eager, or is that just hunger? Intimidation is all in a day's hard work after all. Damn he must have the munchies, right?

Mickey shrugs to himself and then scoffs at how fast he picked up that infuriatingly noncommittal shoulder movement. The baseball bat clinks along the fence again; this time away from the neighborhood as he whistles in full Milkovich bravado.

 


	2. Library Spells Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: family abandonment issues, foster care system issues.

The leaves transitioning into ombre shades of oranges, yellows, and reds are kinda beautiful and majestic in a way even he can appreciate. Mickey watches a few stray ones drift down from their branches and land on the ground as he walks past, on his way to the library. The air is starting to get colder, nipping at his skin so he quickens his pace and stuffs his hands into his armpits for warmth.

He’s already forty-five minutes late, unable to resist a good price on some of his choice weed behind the minimart a few blocks from school. Now to see if the asshole is even here or if he’s gonna have to go on another time-wastin’ scavenger hunt with his friendly bat. Mickey sighs contently to step indoors, central heating chasing away his goose bumps as his eyes scan the place for a familiar redhead.

It’s almost too easy. Gallagher’s at the table near the back all by himself in a darker, more isolated corner. Mickey glowers at all the other students from his school clustered together and chatting happily as he shuffles by them. Normally he avoids places like this like the plague. He probably would enjoy the plague more. Antisocial is a born characteristic, one he’s quite proud of if anyone were to ask.

Ian looks at him with a piercing glare, making a point of pulling back his sleeve and showing the older boy the time on his plastic, black watch.

“Yea, I knooow,” Mickey groans out as he takes a seat, dropping his backpack on the table, “I’m here now so let’s just do this and get it over with.”

Letting out a short indignant huff, Ian opens his notebook and writes something quick. He pushes it over.

_FINE._

“Fine by me too,” Mickey retorts immaturely with an eye roll, “You were gone the day we talked about it, the prompt is fucking vague. Love, regret, and identity. Themes that we’re going to study before break or some shit, I never read any of the books. We’re supposed to learn about each other and write about our lives, similarities or differences or whatever to relate to at least one of them.”

Ian pulls an offended face and writes down something else.

_Well that's fucking stupid._

That gets a laugh out of Mickey, “I know, who cares about our lives? I fucking don’t. And get this, there’s a mix-media requirement. We gotta have something else to go with the paper, like pictures or recording or some dickbag form of self-expression.”

_Nooooo. Deadline in Dec? Before xmas break?_

Mickey glances at the younger boy’s scribbled words and accompanied frown, responding similarly, “Yea, gonna be displayed in the gym for families’ night or whatever.”

_I don't have a family so it doesn’t matter. You?_

The way that Ian stares at him so blank-faced makes Mickey feel almost uncomfortable, like the redhead’s too far gone to care, “Foster home, right? Me too. They ain’t bad and at least I’m with my sister. That lady you’re with is a fucking bitch, I’ve been through enough places to know the type. What about the kid, that little girl I talked to? She seemed alright.”

_Louise, watches my back so I like her. Everyone else in the house sucks._

While the brunette is reading, Ian makes a point of underlining ‘sucks’ multiple times for emphasis that gets a raised eyebrow in response. Then he grabs the notebook back to write something else.

_She’s getting adopted next week by a nice couple in the suburbs, drives a Prius._

“Fucking douches,” Mickey replies in general judgment, nothing good about rich or poor people when most will disappoint you in the end anyways.

Ian shrugs, like he doesn’t really care to have an opinion in the first place. Almost like he’s too numb.

_Better off gone than here._

Can’t argue with logic, Mickey nods pessimistically, “That’s too fucking true.”

There’s a faraway, detached feeling that coats the younger boy like a straight-jacket and there’s no way out. He fidgets with his pencil against the paper, scribbling nonsensical lines and shading them.

“No one’s heard your voice before…when’d you stop talking, Gallagher?” Mickey abruptly asks, his usual cynicism for everything seems almost a shame and curiosity furls itself around him.

As Ian’s writing, the brunette studies the person in front of him from pale ginger eyelashes to the splattering of freckles to a graceful, slender hand making precise movements. Then mesmerizingly clear eyes that are suddenly staring expectantly back at him, the notebook makes its way back into his hands.

_I was 11, in 6 th grade when I got removed from my home. Then moved around different places, nobody really wanted me for long. I ended up here last year. I’ll age out in 2 years, it doesn’t matter. What about you? _

Mickey frowns, remembering again how much he hates this topic because it’s fucking depressing and sadly real for people like them, “Mandy, my sister, and I got removed when she was in third grade and I was in fifth. We were placed together and my two older brothers separately, haven’t seen them since. Mandy and I kinda bounced around for a while too, our shitty dad never cared to find any of us. The fucker probably just kept going like nothing was wrong, probably the highlight of his life.”

The general look of indifference on Ian’s face cracks for a second, like it’s a mask that’s starting to show its wear-and-tear that’s peeling and curling at the edges. Mickey catches the momentary lapse and recognizes it immediately because he’s also hiding it all the time. It’s heartbreak.

“Then one time Mandy and I kinda lucked out, we ended up with Kate and Mike,” Mickey decides to share, sounding a tiny bit sentimental which is way too fucking much for his liking but what the hell, “They put up with me most days and hate me on some, I’m just a fuck-up by nature I guess. But they love Mandy so that’s all that matters. That’s why I can’t fail anymore classes, not one fucking toe out of line or I’m back in the system without her.”

Ian smiles, a kind of breathtaking one that makes the older boy feel weirdly warm and safe inside.

_Your sister is lucky, she has you._

Mickey snorts, displaying the fuck-u-up tattoos on his knuckles for emphasis, “Pretty sure anyone stuck with me is up for a lifetime’s worth of shitty luck.”

_Better together though, right? That’s everything._

“True, I could never imagine not having her around,” Mickey confesses, “She’s smart as hell, has a full scholarship to Saint Augustine Girls School. She’s also still a true Milkovich, arms pack one hell of a punch and she’s scrappy as fuck when it comes to fighting. And well she’s the only one who considers me family now.”

Talking about Mandy is always easy, there are so many things about her that he’s proud of that’s so far detached from himself. Then he notices the drained look on the other boy’s face like something he’s said hits a raw nerve.

Mickey leans forward, his expression a rare open book of sincerity, “What happened, Ian? Why…did you stop talking?”

They stare at each other unwaveringly, Ian spending an extra moment in contemplation before breaking eye contact to write. His hand has a slight tremble, but still moving with fixed determination. The words written are messier than usual, Mickey catches a few random words and it churns his stomach to recognize them so personally. Words that are like old buddies doggedly clinging onto him like the ultimate downer.    

_I ruined everything. Because of ME, they took all of us and broke us up. My brothers and sisters, I never saw them again. Our parents are probably getting high and forgetting to care right now._

Confused at the vagueness, Mickey ventures a guess that makes him miserable to consider it’s a good probability, “You mean when you talked to Children’s Services? Your testimony?”

_Bingo_ \- he realizes immediately, tragically too on point. Like boxes collapsing, Ian stops breathing for brief second in time as the damage of a memory consumes him. Then life, a stubborn bitch as it always is, keeps going and Ian passes through the dead-quiet aftermath of nowhere land back to reality. The next scrawled words are barely legible.

_I can’t._

Ian is scared and lost in himself, like when Mandy has that one bad reoccurring nightmare and can’t shake herself out of it until Mickey wakes and holds her. So it’s really second nature for him to place his hand on top of the redhead’s shaking ones, holding on firmly.

“Hey, you’re okay. Look at me,” the older boy continues murmuring in a soothing voice once Ian looks directly at him, wide-eyed and devastated, “It’s okay, Ian. That’s right, everything is okay. You’re okay.”

His practiced comforting helps, Mickey can tell by the way the other boy’s pupils become less dilated and more focused even if they’re also starting to look wetter. Tears usually make him extremely uncomfortable, even if they’re Mandy’s and he makes the extra effort, but this time his natural urge to flee doesn’t kick in. He doesn’t mind that they sort of just continue touching hands for the next few minutes as they read up on the assignment from the handout.

This is an oddly private moment in public display that makes Mickey sweaty with knotted nerves just thinking about it, even if they’re in a dark corner away from everyone else. These neighborhoods that they live in ain’t exactly the type of place for two guys to be holding hands in the open without a possible ass-beating, gay or not. But against all self-preserving logic he stays exactly where he is, at least until Ian can look up again without wet eyes. This scary, new empathy is probably gonna end him.

But when the younger boy’s the first to move away to write something, Mickey feels a weirdly residual disappointment he doesn’t quite understand and it makes him even more conflicted.

_So are we gonna have to actually read these books? Cause I don’t really follow much either._

“I don’t even know,” Mickey rakes his fingers down his face and groans, “It goes against my low morals to do the actual work but we can’t fail either. Fucking Sophie’s Choice, man.”

Ian quirks his head to the side, thinking for a second before writing something down and stay posed to jot something else down after the response.

_Movie reference again. You watch a lot, right?_

“The Johnsons make us do movie night every Sunday, we usually watch stuff that’s old as fuck but sometimes it’s not too horrible I guess,” Mickey explains probably unnecessarily but here he is doing it anyways.

_How about we cut some corners to narrow the project down?_

“Like watch the movie versions of the books? That should be decent for passing the lame reading quizzes and it’s still definitely more than I ever do,” Mickey agrees with a satisfied nod, “Then we can pick the easiest one to do the project. Meet up some days after school cool?”

_Yeah. Gonna have to be at your place, mine is bad. Well, the bitch sucks._

"Okay sure, Mike and Kate are gonna have heart attacks to see my ass at the house not causing trouble and not escorted by our local brave blue shields at two in the morning, “Mickey answers with a snicker tinged by an unshakable frown, his head stuck on the word ‘bad’ even though they all have it shitty around here.

Like maybe he actually cares and that alone is a strange fucking thought. Ian draws a quick doodle in the corner of the page and the brunette peers over that way, glad for the distraction. It's an angry face with buck teeth and curlers in her hair in mid-scream with a mouth full of spittle. The speech bubble reads _I love kids!_

Grabbing the pencil, Mickey taps the end against his lips a few times before adding a giant crack pipe sticking out of the corner of her mouth with smoke billowing out in exaggerated swirls and then shading in ghetto-style chips to her teeth. He glances at the younger boy and they share toothy grins. With gleaming eyes, Ian draws a stash of hundred dollar bills stuffed down the front of her shirt with a second speech bubble: _Every last dime goes to the children!_

Mickey snorts derisively, his turn to expand the character with stubby legs standing on top of a soapbox with a sash wrapped around her torso labeled _#1 Mom_. When he looks up, the redhead is glowing with delighted charm that makes Mickey instantly feel it’s too bad Ian isn't this bright all the time and pleased that he’s the cause of it. Then he remembers he doesn’t allow himself to have thoughts like that. Oh fuck. He pushes it away, the fear and the anxiety and the shame.    

Of course the younger boy’s still staring steadfastly at him while he has an insane inner dialogue with himself, enough to ruffle his feathers and turn his thinking frown into an embarrassed scowl by default. Ian is unfazed by the sudden change in temperament, tracing his fingers pads over the drawing with a softer version of his broad smile. Mickey’s crotchety, defensive mood dissipates like it’s taken on by a stronger, better feeling. Seeking a reprieve, he scans lethargically around the room and the realization hits him.  

The loud chattering around him is gone, it’s right around dinner time and most of the library’s already cleared out. There’s an odd student here and there who are either overachieving dicks or, more likely, kids with no dinners and no places to go. He stands up abruptly, packing up all his stuff back into his backpack. Ian leers up at him uncertainly, fingers intertwining with themselves and fidgeting on top of the notebook still open on the table.

“I’m fucking starving, man. Time to grab some grub, pizza at Joe’s. Pimple-faced kid there owes me, free slices until he pays up,” Mickey pauses in his first step, realizing the redhead is still sitting there unmoved, “You comin’ or studyin’ here all night, Steve Urkel?”

Raising his middle finger for a casual flip-off that makes Mickey chuckle, Ian unceremoniously piles his stuff up and slides them into his backpack.

Again, he’s just noticeably rocking on the balls of his feet as he towers over Mickey. The corners of Ian's mouth are upturned in a neutral sort of way, but just enough for the brunette to wonder if just maybe his project partner is nervous around him when they're this close in proximity. But not in an intimidated way but something entirely different, more like there’s a charged spark ready to zing them at any moment.

They exit the library and Mickey’s relieved, breathing in crisp September night air that quickly becomes a touch too chilly so they walk faster. He steals side-glances when it’s inconspicuous enough; taking in Ian’s face that’s tinged pink on the cheeks and nose, eyelashes glimmering under the right light, and lips a rosy red. It’s really kind of pretty to look at, a thought that mortifies him.

Mickey shoves it to the dark nooks and crannies of his mind with all the other terrible feelings. If they’re gonna be stuck with each other for the next few months, then thinking at all about his partner seems like a horribly damning idea.

Now he just needs to tell his stomach to stop flip-flopping, easy.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for any comments, kudos, and bookmarking! I love writing this story so far, it especially means a lot to me and I hope you'll enjoy following these characters too. 
> 
> Leaving this same message in all my stuff: I get anxious and self-conscious about my writing so I have to actively work towards building up enough confidence to read/respond to comments and look at stats. So please don't be offended if I don't respond in this century, I swear I'm not ignoring you and sincere apologies. Again, thank you!


	3. Super M and Firecrotch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: there's a minor homophobic character who uses slurs and implied/references to Terry Milkovich as an abusive homophobe.
> 
> Reference: Paper football is loosely American football played on a tabletop with a piece of paper folded into a triangle and fingers as the goal posts.

Mickey squints through one open eye, nose scrunched in concentrated effort as he flexes his wrist a few times to loosen it up. With a decisive flick, the folded paper triangle sails through the air between the two desks and tumbles just short of Ian’s fingers creating the goal post. It comes to a stop without fanfare.

“Oh, fuck you!” the brunette exclaims in aggravation, glaring at the other boy’s shit-eating grin, “Hell no, I want a damn redo! Redo!”

Stubbornly, he tries to grab the paper football back from Ian’s desk and growls at how quickly the redhead’s snatches it up first. That stupid giant hand dangles the folded triangle in front of his face but never stopping long enough for him to touch.

“Come on, you bastard! Just give it to me! Or are you afraid you’re gonna lose, tough guy?” Mickey jabs the other boy’s rock-hard stomach and then tries hard not to linger on that thought.

Ian shoves the paper football in his back jeans pocket with a smirk, scribbling something onto his notebook and then holding it up declaratively.

_No way! I already won by a SHITLOAD of points, Mick!_

“We weren’t counting those practice rounds, Gallagher!” the older boy purses his lips with disgruntlement and immaturely swipes at the notebook, “I was still learnin’ the ropes and everything!”

But Ian just leers over with a dubious stare and quirks a lopsided grin as he writes something down.

_The first few rounds were practice but the millionth one? Really not._

With a roll of his eyes, Mickey stares at the back pocket where he can still see a corner of the paper sticking out like a sore thumb - so tempted to reach in and snatch the thing. Then he just goes for it, reaching an arm around the redhead’s waist to grab the prize while his other hand distracts by sticking itself onto Ian’s face like an alien suck monster. But the fucking redhead is fast, death-gripping Mickey’s wrist so his fingers are stuck in their current position against Ian’s ass with no way out.

It’s a bullheaded stalemate, neither one wanting to give in until Ian’s one eye peeking out between the older boy’s fingers sparkles mischievously. Mickey finds out what that’s all about instantly, feeling a tongue draw a thick wet line against the palm of his hand. He becomes slack out of surprise, just enough for Ian to pull Mickey’s hand out of the pocket and takes the paper football back into his possession triumphantly.

“What are you, five?” Mickey retorts with an incredulous chuckle, examining his hand only briefly before he’s staring at the notebook again.

_So does that makes you six? Sore loser…_

“Let’s go again, I’ll kick your ass now that I know what I’m doing!” the older boy jabs his finger in the air authoritatively and then segues to scratching his nose, suddenly not so intimidating.

Ian plays with the folded piece of paper, twisting it in his grasp for dramatic effect as he shakes his head decisively.

"Look who's a sore winner now?" the brunette points out insolently, arms crossed and his mood sours when the redhead scrawls out the next words.

_Exactly. Winner!_

"Lookie what we have here, the mute’s writing little love notes. Guess he’s not completely retarded after all! I was wondering how this would work, it's like a match made in heaven, right guys?!" Greg sneers as he hovers by and his group of friends laugh along, high-fiving him.

Mickey’s eyes narrow dangerously, his mouth poised into a nasty snarl as he spits out, "I'm sorry, I can't hear anything over the sound of you masturbating to these dickheads here. How about we talk this over after school and I can properly introduce your face to my foot?"

“Whatever,” Greg comments with a short laugh like he’s just realized poking a hibernating bear isn’t a good idea, glancing around for their teacher that’s been gone for the last half an hour, “I have better things to do after school than meet up with the likes of you.”

His minions are vocal again, echoing the same sentiments like a broken record of overstimulated apelike noises. Mickey clenches his fists tight, ready to jump the douchebag based on principle alone. But Ian holds his arm to stop him and holds up his notebook towards the group.

_Fondle each other’s balls like you’re doing right now? If it goes further, don’t forget to use protection!_

“We’re no fuckin’ fags,” Greg declares disgustedly, sizing the redhead up with a leering stare before he snickers, “But looks like we found a live one in our midst. It’s always the quiet ones, ain’t it? You like dicks, ginger? Are you a nasty, little homo? Is that how you lost your voice, sucking too many-”

“The fuck you say?” Mickey says dangerously quiet as stands up so fast his chair knocks over onto its back, up close and personal in the guy’s face in a split-second.  

The whole classroom turns dead-silent, all attention on the commotion happening in the back. Greg flushes a splotchy red as Mickey’s chin juts out even further and his teeth are bared like a feral animal ready to pounce on its prey, “You gonna apologize? Or am I gonna have to show you how, fucker?”

Greg glances at his friends suddenly not making eye contact with him and turns away with a scowl, speaking to no one in particular, “Sorry, man.”

“That’s fuckin’ rude and I can’t stand rude people who are self-entitled little shitstains. His name is Ian,” Mickey replies with a deep frown as the sounds of his knuckles cracking as he flexes them echo through the room, “Now admit that you’re a pathetic little bitch and apologize like you mean it.”

“I’m a pathetic little bitch and I’m…sorry, Ian,” Greg says reluctantly, like it’s physically painful and that irritates the brunette even more.

“What the hell is going on here?” Mrs. Stevens demands authoritatively with hands on her hips, apparently back from her smoke run, “Milkovich, Jennings! Why are you out of your seats?”

Mickey pats Greg’s cheek a little roughly, putting on a slanted smile, “Just helping him with some brainstorming. He had some bad ideas and I’m helping him correct them before it’s too late.”

Greg’s lackluster nod is enough for her to return to her desk in the front of the room and flip open a magazine while Mickey discreetly picks up his chair before sliding back on it. From the corner of his eye, he catches Ian’s blank face - the facade of indifference is back up. With their teacher back for whatever that’s worth, the rest of the class goes back to silent study.

When the brunette offers a standard exasperated grin to test the waters, Ian returns the sentiment but half-heartedly like he’s unsure about something. Mickey has no idea what. He can’t exactly ask now, especially since the other boy’s already turned away to stare out the window. So that gnaws away at him, keeps him wondering if the growing anxiousness in the pit of his stomach is ever gonna subside.

-

Ian follows him home like the numerous other times, sitting next to him on the bus with their backpacks on their laps. From their window, they can see Greg with his posse of dumbasses catcalling disinterested girls from across the street. Feeling inspired by spite, Mickey wants to live up to his tattoos and follow up on unfinished business from earlier – preferably by punching in Greg’s ugly, smug face.

Like a mind reader, Ian knows what the older boy’s thinking of doing so he unzips his bag and takes the blue sketchbook out. It’s the special one Ian keeps for them to communicate and kill time with stupid doodles, except maybe not so stupid. A distraction to prevent Mickey from doing very regrettable in epic proportions, like beat the shit out of another student on school grounds in front of the principal. Fine, he reluctantly lets it go because Ian wants him to do so.

Usually it’s drawings of shit that happens during the day when they’re in different classes but today, Ian goes a different route. After a pause as if he’s pondering something, the pencil tip touches the parchment. Ian sketches a character that’s immediately recognizable as Mickey with an uninterested expression donning a black mask across his eyes and a black cape flapping in the wind. Then a grateful civilian version of himself with a speech bubble: _Gee thanks, Super M!_

“Super M? What am I, discount dollar store Superman?” the brunette complains without real malice, clearly pleased at the depiction and the appreciation.

Mickey adds context to the comic - drawing a skyscraper roof for the characters to stand on top, front and center, while the rest of the city are shadowy buildings and roads. Like everyone else is just background noise and there’s just them. The sun is just setting, still half there and half on the other side of the world. He passes the pencil back, all part of their familiar cadence.

When this pause is even longer than the first one, Mickey knows something’s up. They never really think about what they do, just doodling whatever comes to mind. He’s just about to nudge his shoulder against Ian’s, but the redhead starts sketching. Each line connecting and overlapping the next creating a story to be told, it’s always exciting for Mickey to watch it unfold before his eyes. Maybe if it was anyone else, he wouldn’t even give a damn. But with Ian, he’s mesmerized.

What the younger boy draws is a close-up of civilian Ian frowning gradually more severe with each next frame featuring a different thought bubble: _Good thing he has a mask to hide his identity. Or else the bad guys would know where to find him. And the city would scapegoat him._

The next frame is a panicked civilian Ian with emphatic arms on Super M and a speech bubble: _The people NEED you around, Super M! Protect yourself!_

Initially, Mickey’s just stunned. Concern isn’t exactly something he’s on the receiving end of often, well besides Mandy and sometimes his foster mom. It’s…nice. Characters make it easier for him to reciprocate. He grabs the pencil and takes up the bottom space of the page to draw civilian Ian and Super M sitting on the edge of the building with their legs dangling, only their backs showing. The sun’s already gone, replaced by shiny city lights below and around them. Super M is looking at civilian Ian who’s busy staring off into the distance, he has a speech bubble: _Best decent behavior from now on. Scout’s dishonor!_

And then a thought bubble: _Is he okay after today? I’m worried._

Ian smiles softly, touching the words with his fingers before he turns the page to create the same scene except it’s civilian Ian’s turn to look worriedly at Super M relaxing without a care. The speech bubble: _Those homophobes are complete douches._

Then a second speech bubble: _But you should know_

A third speech bubble: _…I am gay._

And finally a thought bubble: _Does he hate me now?_

It takes probably too long for Mickey to comprehend what he’s reading, his brains suddenly fucking pudding and proving his history teacher right. There’s just too much and at the same time, too little to go on. The words go in and out of focus as he’s unable to reconcile the feelings in his chest to the learned impulse to be revolted at himself and scared shitless. So he concentrates singularly on what he can.

The question has an answer when he gazes into Ian’s eyes. Just as his pencil tip touches the paper, Ian tugs on his sleeve and points out the window that they’ve already missed their stop. Hastily, they gather their stuff and rush off the bus before they’re even further from their intended destination.

Mickey scans their surroundings and groans, “It’s gonna be a twenty minute walk from here, let’s head this way.”

They fall into the typical stride next to each other, silence the name of the game. Which is normally okay because he ain’t really one for idle chatter about the weather and shit anyways. But right now the air between them couldn’t be more loaded, there might as well be a fucking floating elephant trailing their steps. Ian keeps glancing over apprehensively and constantly readjusting his backpack’s shoulder straps with barely contained nervous energy.

But Mickey doesn’t have a drawing medium to express his thoughts that can’t find words on their own. Jesus Christ, he’s so fucking annoyed with himself, his mind racing fruitlessly for an answer until impulse just takes over. He can’t think for shit so instead he kicks a rock on the ground, prodding it along a few steps before he nudges it over to the redhead. The rock rolls to a stop right in front of Ian’s left foot and the dummy stares questioningly, kicking it tepidly back.

The older boy rolls his eyes and cracks a wide smile, traveling further ahead with the rock in motion, stopping to turn around and propel it with force towards the younger boy. Ian finally beams, trapping the rock and dribbling it full speed past the brunette without stopping.

Mickey’s fingers pull on Ian’s backpack and propel the redhead behind him with a jolt, taking over the rock with a noisy whoop. A short-lived celebration, Ian knocks him to the side with his hip and jets off.

“Punk!” Mickey shouts and chases after with puppy enthusiasm, “Wait up for me!”

-

They sit on the couch with their feet on the coffee table, a bowl of popcorn between them. No one else is around yet, just the two of them. The Lord of the Flies 1963 version is playing on the TV. It’s actually fucking VHS so Mickey seriously doubts anyone’s gonna be missing it from the video rental store he swiped it from anyways. Even trickier, he also had to _borrow_ a VHS player from that pawn shop that hustles old ladies anyways so he ain’t too bothered.

Right now he’s barely paying attention to what’s going on, catching random bits of dialogue that goes through one ear and out the other. After the last film, he’s learned quickly that Ian’s great at summarizing the important points. And, secretly, Mickey thinks it’s cute how exasperated the other boy gets having to answer so many questions as his writing gets more agitated and haphazard as time goes on. So instead he’s drawing in the blue notebook, continuing what they started on the bus.

The two characters are still sitting on the ledge of the building. Super M takes off his cape and holds it in his hands, looking over at civilian Ian. The speech bubble: _You’re the brave one. This belongs to you, not me._

In the next frame, Super M drapes the cape over civilian Ian’s shoulders and there’s a close-up of both of their faces. Super M has a proud smile on, the top half of his face is still covered by the black, fabric mask. Divergently from a civilian, Ian is drawn with a strong jawline and stoic face as typical of a superhero and the cape flares out behind him majestically. There’s a rising sun, it’s the dawn of a new day with expository words: Super M and Firecrotch versus for the World.

A piece of popcorn lands on the paper he’s working on, Mickey glances up just in time for a second one to hit him squarely on the chest. Ian’s hand is poised for another throw so Mickey automatically opens his mouth and the third piece lands directly in. He munches and flips the notebook to a blank page before handing it over to the redhead who obviously wants to write something.

While Mickey’s waiting, he shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth and tosses a pathetically undersized one that hits Ian’s nose by unintentional luck. The redhead is not amused, looking particularly prim and properly annoyed as he holds up what he scribbled.

_I am NOT writing out everything that happens again while you ask stupid questions, Mickey! Pay some attention, yeah?_

“Okay, okay! Eyes front with fucking undivided attention, okay Gallagher?” Mickey laughs and knocks the side of his shoe against Ian’s, “Turn it back a page and check it out.”

Ian does so, exhaling just audibly as his eyes continue studying the additional comic strips. Of course Mickey is still completely ignoring the film despite what he just promised, too preoccupied watching the younger boy for a response. But Ian doesn’t peek up even once, instead too busy drawing feverishly. Every miniscule moment or expression is under Mickey’s scrutiny for meaning, his nerves just shot as the silence drags on and he’s staring at the TV just for a distraction.

When he finally starts to properly comprehend what’s going on the screen, Mickey kinda loses himself in the tail end of the story. If there’s one thing he understands personally, it’s surviving in a savage world without responsible adults. Chaos and disorder and violence, familiar words in his vocabulary since young. He can’t let his guard down for a second, that’s how Piggy becomes the butt of everyone’s joke. He ain’t flashbacking to being a kid playing with Mandy’s doll and getting backhanded by his father for being a small dick pansy. No, he buries it deep.

The credits roll to black and he’s left with raised eyebrows as he observes with a snort, “Well, that’s pretty fucked up. Humans are the true fucking monsters - tell me something I don’t know about our shitty neighborhoods, right?”

Ian smiles broadly and writes something before holding it up.

_I wasn’t really watching the last half, you’re gonna have to summarize for me  ^_^_

Before Mickey can protest, Ian passes him back the notebook after turning it to the intended page.

It’s Super M and Firecrotch without the disguises, sitting on the school’s roof while everyone else is spread out on the lawn or inside for lunch. They’re eating Jell-O cups from a stash that’s a pile on the cape. It’s so detailed and specific, right down to the clothes that they wore earlier in the week to the dirt stains on the brunette’s face. After their roughhousing in the woodsy area behind the school, of course Ian cleaned himself up afterwards while Mickey didn't bother.

Firecrotch’s speech bubble: _You’re my best friend._

Mickey grins fondly, Jell-O Thursdays are the best. Courtesy of the janitor they bribe, he has access to the weekly delivery of food stock for the cafeteria as well as keys to the rooftop. When they’re up there, it’s like the rest of the world and its problems can’t touch them. They’re invincible, like superheroes. And they have each other, _best friends_. He’s not whether he’s felt this proud before, well fuck, he’s never really had someone who’d even call him friend before.

His chest hurts from the lack of breathing, then he remembers to do so and it swells up with warm, fuzzy feelings. It makes him want to fucking giggle like Mandy does when she’s out-of-her-damn-mind ecstatic the night before a concert and can’t calm down enough to sleep. The way Ian’s lips flip up into a smile when Mickey looks up from the page is wondrous and he feels impulsive, comprehending the short distance between the two of them on the couch but also too overwhelmed to move even an inch. He feels giddy and energetic and the opposite of unhinged. He feels happy.

With the pencil, he adds a speech bubble by Super M’s mouth: _You’re my only friend, all I need._

Then he draws the next frame with Firecrotch’s fingers reaching for a cup on the cape with a spoon in his mouth and the tip of his tongue sticking out. Super M has an aghast expression and narrowed eyes with a speech bubble: _But eat that last strawberry Jell-O and I’ll rip your nuts out!_

Ian knocks his shoe against the older boy’s and they share a smile, so simple and sincere that it makes Mickey want to say things that are scary to even think about let alone out loud. Their bodies are coming pulling closer together, like magnets but slower, and it’s not just his overactive imagination. Like inevitable gravity, like Earth making its rotation around the sun. They just stare at each other and it’s physically impossible for Mickey to tear his eyes away, instead licking his chapped lips. This hasn’t crossed any lines yet but it makes him want to, more than he even understands.

He notices the pale skin on Ian’s neck with freckles that are sun-kissed and reaches out a hand to touch them. For some reason, the panicky alarms that usually go off in his head stay dormant as he traces one freckle to another one before letting his hand slip away. The redhead studies him with open curiosity and then something else that makes him feel earnest. It makes him almost try being brave despite hearing his father’s sneering voice roaring up, unrelentingly harsh and domineering. But he can’t, it’s getting too loud and he needs to bury it deep again.

Footsteps going up the stairs to their porch and a fussing set of keys against the front door means the moment is lost. Mickey swallows down the lump in his throat.

-

They’re in his bed, big enough for the two of them since this room used to be the guestroom before Mickey moved in.

His bedroom is lackadaisical, devoid of any personal touches besides a small closet and dresser holding his clothes. Even the act of transferring them out of his duffle bag took a month and a half because he wasn’t convinced anyone would let him stay for long. Why settle down when he’s gonna turn eighteen in a year? He’ll be considered an adult and possibly out on his ass even if he manages to behave himself for now. But that’s too depressing to imagine being separated from Mandy, he doesn’t want to think about how fast his foster parents would want to get rid of him. Because maybe he doesn’t mind them too much, but whatever.

Froom his first visit from weeks ago, Kate started inviting Ian to join them for dinner. Then eventually just telling him to stay over the night since October means early darkness and more opportunistic pricks prowling the streets. His foster parents initially met Ian while they were in the middle of doing homework for other classes because might as well try _not_ failing through a combined effort. It’s borderline cheating so his fuck-all attitude can still stomach it.

But it’s astonishing for him to put in even an iota of work so it’s not hard for the Johnsons to like Ian almost immediately. Especially when compared to the crowd Mickey usually hangs around which, well, those dumbshits ain’t exactly high standards. Plus not talking is a convenient cover for how much a little sarcastic shit the redhead actually is, something that Mickey points out for the millionth time as they lie there.

Ian passes him the smaller notepad and he points the flashlight at it to read.

_Because I am nice, dickweed! Can’t help who I am!_

“Yeah a total angel, halle-fucking-lujah!” Mickey exclaims in a whisper and they elbow each other back and forth a few times.

It escalates into trying to shove each other off the bed and Mickey has a serious foothold while the redhead inches closer to the edge. He swells up with smugness, ready for the resounding thud as he pushes harder with his shoulders squared for impact.

“Did it hurt?” Mickey shit-talks gleefully, already preemptively victorious as he goes for the final offensive, “When you fell from fucking heaven, asshole?”

But the younger boy does the unexpected, he hugs into the brunette’s overbearing power and rolls over Mickey’s body barrowing onwards. The brunette skids to a quick stop with his face briefly opposite the floor before he pulls back, realizing the power shift with looming dread. Now he’s the one with a target painted on his back and vulnerable with an arm still pinned under his own body. When Ian pulls a highly unsophisticated counterattack, the older boy knows it’s a lost cause as those stupidly long fingers continue tickle his sides but he struggles back anyways.

“Un- cle, uncle!” the older boy wheezes out, finally admitting defeat between his embarrassingly wild fits of laughter.

Ian’s fingers stop dancing, patting him on the tummy before moving away to pick up the notepad and flashlight that somehow still stayed on the bed. While the redhead’s writing, Mickey leisurely lies on his stomach as the side of his face sinks further into the pillow. The flashlight in Ian’s hand illuminates his features, highlighting his concentrated furrow and the bridge of his nose down to his dipped chin. Mickey peers up at the other boy with raw tenderness wholly hidden by the darkness, capturing everything.

When Ian sinks into his own side of the mattress, he passes the note over and adjusts the blanket so they’re both covered.

_Thanks for not being weird with me after what I said, Mick. That means a lot._

Mickey turns the flashlight off before placing it on the nightstand along with the pad, playfully bumping shoulders with the younger boy one more time, “Goodnight, Ian.”

He grins when he feels a nudge back in return, his eyelids getting heavier and then he’s just out. There’s something he should say. Not today. Maybe another day. Maybe soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this turned out to be a long chapter! Hope you continue staying with this story, I'll try to update once a week :) Thank you SO MUCH for any comments, kudos, and bookmarking. 
> 
> I'll leave this same message in all my stuff: I get anxious and self-conscious about my writing so I have to actively work towards building up enough confidence to read/respond to comments and look at stats. So please don't be offended if I don't respond in this century, I swear I'm not ignoring you and sincere apologies. Again, thank you!


	4. To Kill a Fever Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This alternates back and forth between the events of two different days so I labeled every switch with either 'yesterday' or 'today'. Hope it's not too confusing!
> 
> Warnings: same as previously  
> Reference and inspiration: To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

[Yesterday - morning]

Watching the older boy flick the lighter open and flame sparking to life, Ian held up his notepad.

_You ever seen a mockingbird before?_

“Nah man, I have no idea what they even look like. Maybe something like the cover?” Mickey turned the class-assigned book over in his hand and studied the winged animal depicted next to the hollowed-out tree with a frown, “So like any other bird then?”

Ian nodded in a bemused way and grinned, jotting something else down.

_You do know that’s just a shadow of a mockingbird that’s also literally a drawing, right?_

“You’re the one asking stupid questions, nerd!” Mickey rounded his hands into two circles and placed them around the redhead’s eyes, “What were you saying, four-eyes?”

An immature laugh escaped out of Mickey’s mouth as Ian smacked his fingers away, pretending to look fed-up but his eyes were dancing as he offered the cigarette back to the older boy’s lips.

A huff of billowy smoke joined the frosty air with each exhale, the two teenagers passed it back and forth like a game of tag - _you’re it._

_You’re it._

_You’re it._

-

[Today - afternoon]

The impulse to ditch class throbs through Mickey like staring at bright neon lights in the middle of an acid trip, his whole body antsy and overly rigid at the same time. It’s the last class of the day in the middle of Mrs. Stevens’ rambling lecture, interrupted by the occasional hiccup expelling the aftertaste of alcohol. Her leathery tongue automatically scraps against her upper teeth after each swallow, the old hag is thirsting real bad.

Normally he wouldn’t even notice, but right now it’s hard not to when the desperation reflects his own so fucking closely. His own mouth feels dry and useless, his mind an attention span with just enough focus to constantly cycle through the same though process. To put it eloquently – where the fucking fuck is Gallagher?

Ian wasn’t in the back of the school this morning, in the woods where they often share a smoke. He wasn’t in the hallway this afternoon waiting so they could go to lunch together. He’s not at his desk right now writing notes to Mickey. Yeah sometimes Ian disappears to wherever the hell he goes off to until early morning hours - which don’t even get Mickey started on that whole fucking secretive business - but that’s never during school hours.

Especially since they’ve been made project partners, neither one of them have missed any classes yet. Mickey, of course, has to turn over a new leaf or at least pretend to well enough and Ian doesn’t seem to mind keeping him company. Until today. This doesn’t sit right with him and the potentially debilitating anxiety continues its ruthless domination of his nerves.

_Just ten more minutes._ It’s nothing, the stupid redhead is probably just skipping.

_Eight minutes left._ Unless something happened to him. Mickey instantly glances to the right to Greg and his band of idiots, mentally examining them for any scrapes or bruises. Gallagher ain’t exactly the type to take anything without throwing a few hefty punches himself. There’s nothing visible, not even a hair out of place. But, really, Greg’s a total wimp who occasionally likes to make noise for the sake of noise.

_Five minutes._ Maybe Ian’s mysterious night adventure just lasted longer than usual. Which Mickey realizes is not a comforting thought at all.

_Two minutes._ Alright, it’s fucking settled. Mickey’s definitely gonna punch the redhead in the face for making him worry like this for no damn reason. Everything is fine.

_One minute._ Come the fuck on already! His stuff’s already packed, well technically it was never unpacked in the first place.

Mickey’s up and out of his chair a second before the bell rings, shoving his way past everyone else with a face that very clearly declares his current dour mood. No one steps in his warpath through the hallway and out the school. He hops on the school bus that goes to Ian’s neighborhood and unsurprisingly, there’s no Gallagher.

It’s a twenty-five-minute ride and then another five for the walk and he’s obsessing about time that keeps them apart. _Tick-tock, tick-tock._ Everything has to be okay.

-

[Yesterday - afternoon]

“There you go, a fucking mockingbird in all its average glory!” Mickey wagged the picture and held it still once the other boy touched his hand to steady it.

The redhead studied it with a curious expression on his face. That same focused look that always made Mickey think Ian was capable of anything, leaving him behind choking on the dust. It was bittersweet - pride and despair.

_It looks nice. Majestic._

Mickey snorted, spitting out the corner of his mouth as they continued walking down the street, “Maybe if it was dead, cooked, and on my plate. Do you think they taste just like chicken? Everything takes like fucking chicken. Not much meat though.”

_You’re just looking through the wrong eyes._

“What does that even fucking mean, Gallagher? Should I just go home and screw in the right ones?” Mickey asked rhetorically and chuckled when the younger boy nods anyways.

“Printed it out during computer class, did it through the teacher’s color printer while he took a restroom break to smoke some weed he bought from me,” Mickey explained with a shark-like smile, “Cha-ching, let’s get some beer and barbeque chips!”

Ian folded the picture into fourths and slipped it into his pocket, wrapping an arm around the older boy’s shoulder in comradery. At least that’s what Mickey told himself as he whooped and slung his arm around Ian, the two of them moving down the street filled with boyish giddy.

-

[Today - afternoon]

When Mickey knocks on the front door rather aggressively, it’s almost like the whole flimsy house trembles on impact. The door finally swings open, the foster mom bitch obviously expecting someone because her face squishes into a delirious smile that drops immediately into a pinched-nosed grimace.

“What the fuck you want now, kid?” she grounds out indifferently, scratching at the track lines on her arm and sniffing irritably.

Mickey takes in her bloodshot eyes and filthy nightgown and raises an eyebrow, surprised she even remembers him, “Ian in?”

“How would I know that?” she bites out and peers around him towards the street, muttering angrily, “All these little brats always in and out, how the hell am I supposed to-”

She shoves him out of the way and takes a few steps more, shouting with an angry rasp at the junky old car pulling into park, “Well took you fucking long enough, shithead! You better not have fucking wasted my hundred and fifty already or you’re back to shoving your tiny little dick back into that slutty bitch Janice again!”

A squirrely, gangling man in a weathered denim jacket darts out of the driver’s seat with the energy of a hyperactive guy on speed because, well, he is. With a jolly jig, he wiggles the crumpled brown paper bag next to his smiling face framed by thin strands of hair and exhibitions his two rows of yellowed teeth. With a loud shriek, she snatches it from his grasp and falls into his arms as he swings her around with crazed merriment. That’s more than enough for Mickey, it’s the age-old story of addicts and lowlifes – the bread and butter of their kind of neighborhoods.

The door is still wide-open and he steps through without sparing a glance backwards. The place is cramped and a cluttered, haptic sort of mess. Like it might sporadically be cleaned in time for the arrival of new kids and then fall back into disarray again, rinse and repeat. The air is thick with a stale smell that drenches the dull wallpaper, probably once something besides a sad greenish-gray. The bitch probably takes an extra healthy dose of uppers for special cleaning occasions, appearance is all that matters after all. No one gives a damn about the reality as long as it’s not theirs to bear.

Mickey can already see to the sparse kitchen from here. That’s pretty much it besides this living room space and there’s no one. So he goes upstairs, gingerly at first because he has no idea who to expect besides Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum outside. There are four closed doors and an open one leading to the bathroom. When he gets closer, he notices the cheap whiteboards sold at the dollar store on each bedroom door. The only one with a single name written is furthest from the stairs in bold, childish letters: _Ms. Betsy. KEEP OUT._

With a scoff, he connects the name with the bitch as his eyes dart over the other boards filled with names that are erased and written over too many times that the ink residue refuses to leave. The room closest to the stairs bears three names, including _Ian G._ There it is, in that same familiar scribble that litters their blue notebook. He decides to knock instead of barging in like he wants to, really just out of respect for Ian because he couldn’t give a damn what _Ben S._ and _Justin F._ thinks.

His knuckles rapped against the fake wood even louder when the first set yielded no response, “Ian? You in there? It’s Mickey.”

Still nothing.

Fuck it. He turns the handle and paces in - taking in the single bed, the bunk, and a crappy desk with accompanied chair all economically shoved in like a game of Tetris. There’s a blanketed lump in the single, Mickey spots the familiar backpack along with a duffle bag labeled ‘Gallagher’ and shoes rammed underneath. Ben and Justin must’ve fucked off somewhere else but their stuff are squeezed underneath the bunk bed.

He closes the door behind him and steps up to the lump, pulling back the blanket gently just to confirm he’s been a silly bitch all day for no reason. And it is Ian, just dozing. Mickey lets out a sigh of relief, feeling the tense knots in his body finally loosening up. A smile almost makes it to his face until he notices how sweaty and pale the younger boy looks in the middle of a chilly October. The way his chest raises and falls with a little too much effort and his nose is red, like he’s been trying to blow out of it without much relief.

The palm of Mickey’s hand, still cold from being outside, cradles Ian’s forehead and it feels hot. Like a fever that’s on the precipice of getting out of control but not quite there yet. The calm before the storm of a full-fledged flu. Of course no one in this shitty house fucking cares, Mickey’s rage a storming inferno even as he begins formulating what to do next. Decisively, he goes back downstairs into the kitchen and wets some paper towels, opting not to riffle through closets and draw the attention of the two junkies probably on a paranoid high.

When he bounds back up, muffled voices from Ms. Betsy’s room means the couple already relocated to dive into their stash of goodies. His middle finger salutes their general direction as their frenzied giggles echo louder. Back at Ian’s side, he carefully lays the damp paper towels on the boy’s forehead as a temporary remedy. The redhead cracks open an eye and groans, that alone probably too much of an effort at this point.

Mickey gives the other boy’s hand a squeeze, leaning in to speak softly, “Hey, it’s Mickey. You have the flu, I’m gonna go get a few things. I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

The response is a dazed murmur before Ian shifts agitatedly, already falling back underneath the veil of sickish slumber. Mickey readjusts the blanket, tucking in all the edges before reluctantly turning to leave. The reflective light from the window catches his eye first though, he leans against it to look out and downwards. There’s a tiered part of the roof a short distance downwards and then a short walk to the edge before dropping off onto the ground.

Easily climbable back up too. Convenient – looks like he’s found his way back in without bothering the bitch again. If she’d even be able to answer any doors, her high promises to be an all-nighter type of deal.

-

[Yesterday - afternoon]

“Yo my man, you wanna share some of that beer with a homie?”

The squeaky voice made Mickey stop in his step to stare at a boy who wasn’t more than twelve, chest puffed out like that’ll proved anything. Ian radiated with bemusement because of the fact that the brunette most definitely was not.

“Well if it isn’t Leave-it-to-fucking-Beaver! Go back to mommy before I kick your little ass!” Mickey barked indignantly and watched the kid run away flipping him off, “Drink some fucking milk and grow a few damn inches!”

“Can you believe this shit? Do I even look like the fucking sharing type?” the older boy demanded with raised eyebrows, gesturing to himself.

Ian shook his head definitively from his spot on the concrete street and grinned up before focusing back onto the ground. They were in the middle of a cul-de-sac, cutting through here was basically a shortcut to Mickey’s house. Looked like some kids were scribbling little drawings with chalk, the different colored sticks left behind.

The redhead gathered the chalk into a pile and carried them over to an area of untouched concrete, his backpack slumped on the ground as he started tracing a black line. Mickey settled down too, deciding he didn’t mind this random shit as long as it’s with Ian. Together, they sipped beer and munched on potato chips as the redhead occasionally sketched more lines. The sun gradually peeked its way through the dark clouds of an overcast day.

Properly buzzed and oddly nostalgic about something he hadn’t thought about in a long time, Mickey just started talking, “This one time when we were all crammed into the car to go get groceries. The four of us – Iggy, Colin, me and Mandy - squeezed tight in the back with our mom and dad up front.”

Mickey’s eyes gradually glazed over, transformed back into the past, “The old man was fucking drunk and yelling before we’re even halfway there and of course his eye catches the sign that says ‘Casino next exit’ and pulls over the car in the middle of fucking nowhere. He’s in there the whole fucking night losing all our goddamn grocery money, but of course that’s nothing new.”

Stopping mid-scribble, the redhead nodded in commiseration because a shitty father around these parts was indeed nothing special.

“Mom got us dinner, the cheap crappy stuff from the convenience store, and laid it out on her jacket,” the brunette smiled fondly and continued staring off into the distance, “We ended up on the tiny little grass knoll right behind the flashing casino sign and it’s this sad little picnic, but none of us cared. We ate and laughed and played stupid games and it was just perfect. Then the fucker stumbled out even meaner and drunker and mom disappeared into herself again.”

Ian studied the older boy with tender attention, rolling the piece of chalk in his hand.

Shrugging dismissively, Mickey flattened his back onto the ground with his arms crossed underneath his head for cushion, “It was a good moment while it lasted.”

Feeling Ian’s touch on his knee that moved to his thigh, he closed his eyes wishing it moved higher and closer.

-

[Today - afternoon]

It’s a brisk walk back home with Mickey’s mind on a one-track mission. _Grab the stuff, leave a note, and head back._ Once inside, he beelines for the kitchen drawer where they store all the over-the-counter medicine and fumbles noisily for the right bottle of flu and sinus. _Got it_. He turns around hastily, shoving the drawer shut and colliding right into his foster mom with arms full of groceries.

A few stray oranges roll away until they hit a wall but everything else stay precariously secure in her grip. With the bottle hidden at his side, Mickey picks up the fallen fruit as Kate hoots with laughter and just barely dumps everything on the counter.

“Today’s one of my shorter work days, remember?” Kate says at the tail end of her titters, the deep wrinkles at the corners of her mouth crinkling up as she chats while putting things away, “Thought I’d beat the weekend rush and stop by Safeway’s. Didn’t expect you hanging around here though. Where’s Ian?”

“At home,” Mickey answers and then stalls for half a second to chew on his bottom lip before continuing, a note’s so much easier than actual communication with an adult, “I was planning on doing homework at his place and just stay there for the night.”

“Really? At Ian’s? Betsey Miller okay with that?” Kate places the milk carton into the fridge, wiping her hands on her jeans before pushing her graying side-bangs behind her ear. She eyes him critically as well as the bottle not so discreetly peeking from between his fingers.

Before he can answer, she’s moving towards a drawer and pulling out a couple of small cotton towels, “You’ll want these and a bowl to hold cool water so you can refresh the towels. God knows if Betsey even has a clean one at that house at the moment, check day means drug day.”

Then she’s opening a cabinet door and taking out multiple bowls before hunching down for a different cabinet, digging around until she finds a few cans of soup to add to the growing pile on the counter, “Have him eat as much as possible before he takes the medicine and you eat too since you’re skipping dinner with us.”

Mickey starts loading things into his backpack, shooting furtive glances her way as she continues dropping off utensils and a few apples she just bought earlier, a thermometer, and cough drops. Basically everything but the kitchen sink.

“Mandy didn’t come home with you?” Mickey thinks to asks, belatedly realizing his sister isn’t around.

“She has her own ride nowadays, seems like she might be dating someone,” Kate smiles conspiringly and adds, “Don’t let Mike know yet, no need for him to be stomping around with that damn grumpface and refusing to change the channel from Antiques Roadshow just because they watched together when she was little!”

“Hell no, not again! That lasted for days!” Mickey responds with equal horror and then concedes, “But that guy was a total douche, glad she kicked his ass to the curve. Especially that nice right hook of hers!”

Kate chuckles heartily, “And remember Mike cheering like a total idiot and making a complete ass out of himself tossing our whole carton of eggs at the kid’s car?”

It’s not hard to be protective of Mandy, it’s not hard to love her – Mickey knows. In fact it’s not often that they’re alone together without his sister as an intermediary, he can probably count the times on a single hand. He usually finds an excuse and makes himself scarce because, really, what adult would actually want to spend time with him? Who would actually, voluntarily love him?

“Ian will be fine, it’s right around the time colds and flus - just gotta wait it out until the body fights back. Don’t skip school tomorrow, if it gets serious then you call me from their house phone to ours, okay?” Kate finally stops zipping around chattering and sips at a cup of hot coffee, her hip leaned against the now empty counter, “And stay out of Betsey’s way, she gets nasty when she’s on something.”

With an affirmative nod, Mickey starts shuffling away and turns back briefly to add, “Uh thanks, Kate.”

“Do me a favor then, no teacher phone calls for the next month!” she shouts after him as he bounds up the stairs for a change of clothes to bring along.

“And eat the fucking apple, it’s good for you!” she adds as he rushes out the door with a considerably bulkier backpack, his shoes hitting the pavement with urgency.

-

[Yesterday - evening]

His eyelids rested for what felt like a second so Mickey jerked awake in defensive confusion. Then remembered he was on the ground in the middle of an empty cul-de-sac. Ian sat next to him with legs crossed, drinking the last can of beer. His fingers were smeared with black and white chalk all the way down to some of his nails.

“How long was I out?” Mickey asked as he rubbed at his face to chase away the last haziness of sleep.

Ian held up two digits and smiled.

“Two hours? Fuck me,” the brunette uttered incredulously and glanced around his surroundings out of habit, “I normally never knock-out like this in strange places.”

But Ian made any place seem safe, he silently added to himself.

Mickey shook the idea from mind, but not from existence. Opting for distraction instead, he searched the ground for some small, instantly recognizable drawing but it was confusing. He didn’t understand the rather blocky patches of faded black veering into dark gray and pristine white that extended far out beyond his immediate vision.

Shooting the other boy a quick, confused brow raise resulted in a secretive grin in return, prompting him to get up and figure it out for himself, “Fucking Mona Lisa, huh? Planning on adding this to your list of mysteries?”

The abstract drawing was expansive, taking up a generous portion of the concrete the size of a parked car. The ambiguous blob became more distinct as he got closer, realization sinking in as he stepped toward a giant wing and some twiggy branches further below. No not branches, feet. Then he finally got it. The full image revealed itself before him – a mockingbird in flight away from the eye of the beholder, going free.

Mickey suddenly understood what Ian meant before, it was breathtaking. Not the superficial image of the bird, but the fearlessness and joy of movement. Like a child filled with wonder and curiosity because the worlds felt limitless. He tried remembering the last time he felt that way. But like good memories, it’s hard to find and then that sad little picnic came back to mind.

Out of fucking nowhere, a stray tear made its way down his cheek without him even realizing it. Like it’d hit a raw nerve, he started crying and Ian’s hand rested on his shoulder, a kindred spirit.

-

[Today - evening]

When Mickey climbs back inside, the two other roommates are still gone and Ian’s the same lump except now on his side turned away from the sinking sun. The paper towels are a crumbled pile on the sheets, a warm dampness in the brunette’s grip before they end up in the trash. Mickey dumps the contents of his backpack onto the desk, grabbing necessary things to take down to the kitchen.

He pours the can of soup into a bowl and watches it go ‘round and ‘round. No matter how ghetto, a house always has a cheap-ass microwave to nuke frozen dinners – the wave of the fucking future, that’s the glossy dream of every happy 1950s family, right? Nobody gets TV dinners anymore except poor people and lonely people, go fucking figure.

_Beep-beep-beep-b-_ Damn it, shut the fuck up! He takes pops open the stupid door quickly after hearing its obnoxious sounds whining on, but then he realizes there’s no one around. Literally not a single soul. It’s like a ghost house. So it’s not just Ian who avoids hanging around here, all the other kids seem to have the same idea. This is not how any child should grow up, Mickey thinks and then chides himself for the grossly naïve idea. For children like him and them, that’s just the way it works out.

He brushes that from mind, no need to bring his dreariness to an already sick person. Waking up Ian is unsurprisingly easy, the redhead willingly sitting up enough for Mickey to wedge the pillow behind his back. Ian is never fussy - almost like an extension of his mask of indifference, being invisible is key.

“Hey,” Mickey breathes out as he sits on the edge of the bed, bowl of soup in hand, “you doin’ alright?”

Nodding a little too stoically, Ian reaches out and grabs the bowl. Out of bravado he weakly places it on his lap and stares at it like that alone is sucking the last of his energy already.

“Sure ya are. How ‘bout you let me do this one anyways,” Mickey says softly as he takes the bowl back, blowing at the spoon of hot soup before bringing it up to the younger boy’s mouth.

Ian gulps and manages to the swallow the liquid down, continuing up the effort for half of the bowl’s contents before giving up with a haggard shake of his head and starting to slump further down on the bed.

“Okay, that’s a good amount. You did a good job. Now just drink this and you can go back to sleep,” Mickey smiles sweetly and measures out enough flu medicine to go with the cup of water.

As soon as the glass cup leaves his lips, Ian sinks the rest of the way into the bed and is out in a bundle of dead weight. Mickey tucks him in like his mom used to when he was a child. Sometimes even tucking in with him because of a stupid nightmare about the time his dad shot a gun at his feet to make him dance as a joke. She was his shelter and his world before she died, then the last visages of his childhood no longer existed. So he buries it deep.

He downs the rest of the soup in a single go, no longer hungry himself but it’s the easier way to clean the bowl. Wetting a folded towel in cool water, he carefully squeezes the excess liquid out before placing it on the younger boy’s forehead. He pulls out the thermometer he slipped under Ian’s tongue a minute ago. One-hundred-and-one degrees.

Now it’s just a waiting game until the fever goes down. Mickey places the crappy plastic chair that goes with the desk down next to the bed, keeping a constant vigil. His hands rest on the blanket, wanting to reach further and he gets close enough so a few of his knuckles touch against Ian’s bicep.

-

[Yesterday - evening]

The downpour started suddenly and sporadically, initially with just with a few fat droplets that hit their skin. Just when Mickey’s aware of the impending weather change at the fringes of his mind, the rain came down with wicked force and tenacity. Ian was quicker on the uptake, running back and grabbing their backpacks. They each held one over their heads, fighting a losing battle and getting quickly soaked to the bones anyways.

With each drop, the chalked mockingbird blurred a bit more and melted into little pools of mucky color filling up the cracks in the concrete. It was pretty idiotic to stay standing over the disappearing art but neither of them moved to leave. Maybe they needed to see it happen, to know that it did. Mickey thought about his childhood memory, an innocence that once existed. It made him feel miserable and so alone. The faraway expression on Ian’s face felt like an unsurmountable distance between them until they looked into each other’s eyes, like they’re thinking the same thoughts.

When they finally leave, Mickey hunched down briefly and pocketed something from the ground before they’re off to a run towards his house. They shook off water from their hair on the front porch, staying outside because Ian stopped him from inserting the key into the doorknob. Rain a curtain of steady downpour surrounding them into their own private space.

Parts of Ian’s words were blurry from the wetness on his hand as he wrote on the notepad.

_I’m gonna head off, something I gotta do. See you tomorrow?_

Mickey started frowning and settled for a shrug instead, trying to sound nonchalant, “You could eat dinner with us first and at least dry off.”

_Not enough time, especially with school in the morning. More food for you though, Mandy says you hate sharing!_

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Mickey responded distantly to hide his disappointment, thawing up pathetically fast with Ian’s stupid grin directed his way like always.

_Thanks anyways, Mick. Eat extra for me!_

“Eat something yourself too. Don’t forget, asshole!” the brunette nagged as the other boy moved through the veil of rain and bounded down the street.

Mickey slipped a hand into his coat pocket and felt the two sticks of chalk in between his fingers, a keepsake.

-

[Today – late evening]

The groans stir Mickey awake.

Not that he’s really catching any deep sleep from his uncomfortable lurch against the edge of the bed while still perched in the plastic chair. He peers around and notices the other roommates are still gone. Darkness seeps through the whole room except for light from the lamp post on the street corner like a beacon, the sun setting hours ago.

His attention falls back to the ginger boy - his best friend, literally a light in his life that he’d protect at all costs. He can’t imagine living in a world without the little shit who’s in so much pain right now that it kills him to be so helpless. Ian looks aggrieved and a bit delirious, flinching at an invisible presence and it becomes obvious that he’s stuck in the middle of a nightmare. The blanket is a pool by his feet and his hands are clenched on his chest, like he’s trying to shield himself.

“It’s okay, you’re okay, everything is okay. I’m right here, just listen to my voice,” Mickey murmurs as he wraps his hands around the other boy’s closed ones, stroking with his thumb pads to coax them open while his gut wrenches, “Nothing’s going to hurt you, I’m here.”

When they do open and meld into his grasp, there’s a slight pause before he brings them up to his lips and presses a kiss on each one. Just like the image in his mind that’s a constant fixture - these slender fingers with shortly cut nails sometimes stained with speckles of paint of various colors overlapping each other like now. His mystery boy. Ian’s expression seems calmer. He places them down gently at Ian’s sides before pulling the crumbled blanket back up to his chin.

Then Mickey replaces the old towel on Ian’s forehead with a freshly damp one, wetting a third one to wipe off the dots of perspiration on the redhead’s face and neck. As he’s rounding around the left side of the jaw, he notices the tears falling and mixing in with the sweat like a convenient disguise. The scary part of the nightmare is over, but the tragedy’s just starting. Mickey wipes both cheeks with the cloth, cleaning the slate temporarily until more tears streak down and the whimpering starts up. Like a wounded animal.

_No, no, no, no, no._ Cradling Ian’s face with the palm of his hand, he wracks his brain for what to do as he gets off his chair and leans in closer. Ian’s arms move up and encircle his waist like a frightened child reaching out for comfort. Without thinking, Mickey lifts the blanket enough to ease himself onto the small mattress and then covers the both of them up. With Ian hugging him tightly like a lifeline, he wraps his arms around and adjusts so the redhead’s face can nuzzle against his chest.

Their bodies are flush together and legs entangled like gears locking in place, each rise and fall of breath like a shared rhythm. The front of his shirt soak in the crying and the sob of awareness that comes with waking up from a bad dream, he leaves a trail of comforting kisses on top of Ian’s head and against his temple. His fingers brush back the strands of ginger hair damp with sweat while his other hand trace up and down the redhead’s back, lulling Ian to an eventual serenity and then safe slumber.

Mickey’s losing it - the carefully drawn lines that box him in and keep him safe from the world. The lines are blurring and simmering panic starts setting in again, he’s too vulnerable. Is it possible to want something so bad and be so fucking afraid at the same time? He doesn’t wanna let go, but don’t all things leave in the end? Not if they’re together, right?

Ian’s fever breaks in the early morning and bits of Mickey’s walls crack with a million tiny fissures that burns.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely the Mickey chapter, I wanted to explore his character depth through his different relationships with people. Interesting to write, hopefully interesting to read...
> 
> My next chapter is probably going to be in two weeks - Halloween theme, baby! Tiny teaser: it's a game-changer ;) Thank you SO MUCH for any comments, kudos, and bookmarking. 
> 
> I'll leave this same message in all my stuff: I get anxious and self-conscious about my writing so I have to actively work towards building up enough confidence to read/respond to comments and look at stats. So please don't be offended if I don't respond in this century, I swear I'm not ignoring you and sincere apologies. Again, thank you!


	5. Hear His Tell-Tale Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: reminder to please see my tags, otherwise same warnings as previously stated including Terry Milkovich being an abusive homophobic presence in Mickey's childhood. 
> 
> *Rating has been changed to "Mature", it's just starting to veer into that territory and will probably be more so in the future so I'll be safe by switching it now.

There it is, the familiar splash of ginger hair from a sea of strangers. Mickey smiles and the air crackles like a radio fine-tuning to a specific station. His ears are ringing, an isolated sound that resonates like a ghost limb calling for attention.

He’s jittery, probably just too much caffeinate. But no, wait - he hasn’t had a single fucking cup of coffee all day. It’s the building anticipation, the walk-up that's not even ten steps and he’s consciously aware of the heart palpitations. For a drawn-out moment he feels his pulse skips extra beats like a secret note in Morse code, interrupted before the message gets through. _Fuck me - snap out of it, Milkovich!_

Before he can psych himself out, Mickey takes a deep breath and forces it down. Nothing can change. _Stop thinking and relax, idiot._

“Happy Halloween, motherfucker!” Mickey punches his best friend on the biceps and slides into a seat at the cafeteria table.

Ian immediately punches back, making the older boy laugh and then groan when the spot sharply stings from impact. This makes the redhead smirk before rubbing at his own arm, smarting at his own pain.

They settle down, devouring their food with little discrimination. Something about sitting all morning and spacing off while the teachers droned on makes Mickey extremely hungry. Normally Ian’s pretty decent about mostly paying attention in class, but the brunette noticed that his friend’s been scribbling away in his notebook all day.

“Wanna sneak into the movies tonight? They’re streaming those cheesy horror movies from the eighties or whatever, should be hilarious,” Mickey pops a few fries into his mouth and chews gratifyingly, “I’ll grab some candy and pop from home, we’ve got a shitload right now.”

Pulling a small notepad and pencil from his bag, Ian smiles knowingly and writes.

_Don’t you have a party at home? Mandy invited me. Your parents seem excited._

Scoffing, Mickey chugs down half his chocolate milk and burps, “Yea, they’re real excited to throw a party for Mandy and her douchey school friends. Probably best that I don’t go, start a fight with those preppy eyesores.”

_How is that not fun, Mick? Stop there first, then movies._

Ian grins conspiringly and that alone is enough to convince Mickey, his mood lifting already and he didn’t even know it was that low, “Fine, but you’re responsible for me then.”

_When am I not?! You’re a 24/7 type of job._

“Oh shut up, asshole!” Mickey cracks a smile because it’s true, the other boy’s been keeping him out of dumb shit that’s unsurprisingly normal for the idiots around him, “You’re worse than me, Gallagher, people are just deceived by your sweet look. You just bat your eyelashes and look all innocent and then I’m like a total dick next to you!”

Ian kicks him under the table, chaffing at the brunette’s choice of descriptive words. Running five miles every morning and a rock-hard body says otherwise, Mickey knows that’s what the redhead’s trying to imply. It’s like a little kid insisting he can stay up until the fireworks show at midnight and knocking out almost immediately. Ian’s trying to grow up so bad in such a childlike way. He thinks that makes it even sweeter and then feels the warmth on his cheeks.

_Because you ARE a total dick. Crying freshmen ring a bell?_

“Well you made me stop, killjoy! Now we gotta pay for lunches and you know those fucktards with the shiny new kicks could afford it,” Mickey laments and sighs in mourning for the good old days, rolling the petite apple in the palms of his hands.

_You. Toe. Line. That also ring a bell?_

“Yes, officer,” Mickey raises both hands up in exaggerated defeat, bitten apple still in one hand, “You see I totally wasn’t committing grand larceny, the money just fell into my pockets as I was walking out with my semi-automatic. It’s a total misunderstanding, sir, I swear!”

_Gun or are you just happy to see me?_

Holding up the notepad long enough for the older boy to read, Ian smacks him with it on the chest and grabs the apple. Mickey’s fucking stomach does a sudden flip-flop. He stares in masked scrutiny as the redhead munches on the stolen fruit and turning the notepad to a blank page. It’s weirdly intimate for him to share food that way with anyone, not even Mandy. Cigarettes and joints, yeah.

Not anything like this though. Probably because any sane person would assume he’s not the type and he’d be the first to agree. But right now, honestly he finds it kind of nice.

_I can hang out until 11pm._

“Because you have something to take care of,” Mickey recites the standard answer he gets trying to pry an answer out of the younger boy, peering over with eyebrows furrowed, “Sure you’re not in any trouble?”

_I'm_ _fine, thanks._

Something about Ian keeping a secret from him rubs the wrong way. It’s driving him crazy not to know literally one thing. They’ve been sharing everything to his own surprise, best friends and shit but whatever. He grabs what’s left of his apple and takes the last bite, dropping the core on his tray.

_Aww, you’re worried! That’s SWEET._

With a quick rip, Ian slips the separated sheet over to Mickey to keep and pats the older boy’s cheek. Of course the redhead would throw his taunting back at him, what a little shit. Mickey grabs the teasing hand and takes a playful chomp, more bark than bite.

That makes Ian smile even harder in a stupidly infectious way and the brunette knows his traitorous face is already curving upwards too, wrist still in his hand.

Utilizing the opportunity, Mickey gets up with his backpack and drags the younger boy to follow, “Come on, let’s head to class before the damn stampede starts.”

But Ian jerks him to a stop, signals their food trays on the table as he slings his own bag onto his shoulder and reaching out for them.

“Hey, you guys! Yeah you, come over here and clean this up!” Mickey barks over to the two wide-eyed freshmen at the next table over, watching with satisfaction as they scramble over with haste, “And stop looking so stupid!”

He can already feel Ian rolling his eyes in judgment at Mickey’s general laziness and bullying as they walk into the halls together, “Hey, I’m not even taking their lunch money anymore! It’s like I’m fuckin’ Gandhi now!”

This gets a snort out of Ian that is momentous in sound compared to anything normal and Mickey shoves him from behind in boyish excitement, his hands lingering there probably an extra second longer than needed. He dodges a smack of retaliation and circles around with eagerness, keenly aware of the redhead’s tracking eyes on him. Ian quirks a delirious smile right before they split up for separate classes.

Mickey feels like there’s a clusterfuck of butterflies fluttering around his insides, trying to escape out all at once. The crowded rush to flee, their tiny wings brushing against his inner lining is exhilarating like he’s ready to conquer the world and collapse in defeat all at once.

So he does what he’s best at - close the lid and shut the fucking door, keep them sealed inside.

-

The classroom is in organized chaos, Mrs. Stevens’ presence preventing it from turning into straight-up anarchy. Per the usual, she has dark bags under her eyes and hair a flurried mess with a hint of alcohol and mints on her breath. But she tries more than most, attempting to keep an actual curriculum which is a major pain in Mickey’s ass.

All this week, they’ve been reading short stories by Edgar Allen Poe in honor of Halloween or whatever. Even fucking worse, they’re put into groups each assigned to a story to reinterpret through a media medium – some bullshit about practicing for their big project due in December.

“Presentations are wrapping up today, group six is up first,” she announces without preamble, staring down at her list, “Pay attention to your classmates and, well, try learning something for five minutes yeah?”

Biting back a snarky grin at the brunette’s general irritation, Ian gets up first and watches the older boy roll his eyes. Begrudgingly, Mickey moves his ass to follow after the redhead. At the front of the room, they’re joined by their other group members – fucking know-it-all Susan Nafie and Greg the bitch of a dick.

Ian gathers all the dry-erase pens and hands half of them off to the crotchety brunette. They hover in front of the white board, posed to start. The general cacophony and gossipy racket eases to a stop as the whole classroom stares at the four of them. _Fuck you assholes too_ – Mickey pretty much says with his trademark glare and turns away from their stupid eyes watching him.

Self-consciously, Mickey writes out the word ‘LIFE’ in blocky all-capitals and acutely feels the attention burning an uncomfortable hole into his back. Ian’s concentrated brow and fluttering eyelashes distracts him, a reminder that he’s not standing there alone. Not being ridiculed. Not needing to protect himself. Safe.

“Our story is The Tell-Tale Heart,” Susan glances at her index cards, “An account of the descent into insanity and the haunting call of the conscience.”

The red lines of a sinewy, anatomic heart progressively appears right below the older boy’s words with every stroke of the pen in Ian’s hand. Mickey draws a thick, parallel black line right above ‘LIFE’ smack-dab in the middle of the board and splitting it into two - the upper space still blank and lower half containing the drawing thus far.

“We thought about what that means to high school students. What does insanity, murder, and morality have to do with us?” she continues.

Greg cuts in with a superior smirk, nodding to his boys, “Well besides when we men gotta roll up on some fools like a boss and take care of business!”

With a fed-up sigh, Mickey doesn’t even bother turning around from the board to comment, “Oh shut the fuck-”

“Milkovich, language!” Mrs. Stevens snaps and clucks disapprovingly, then as an afterthought, “Smith, stop talking like a damn fool.”

“Cut in again and I’ll cut you,” Susan mutters under her breath to Greg with a menacing scowl, then addresses the class again, “We thought that, ultimately, we relate to The Tell-Tale Heart through choices. Ones we don’t think about, the ones forced upon us, the ones that change the course of our lives – immediately, some point in the future, or even forever.”

There’s a falter in Ian’s hand mid-movement, a waver that no one else catches except for Mickey. A fractured piece of heartbreak that falls to the ground and disappears, too fast for the older boy to catch and cradle for safekeeping. So Mickey mourns for it, etches it into his very being so it’s never forgotten.

Ian continues sketching out red vessels and arteries from the heart weaving through the letters of the title, turning to brown on their move upwards. They transform into roots splaying out in an intricate web, connecting upwards to Mickey’s skeletal tree planted on the black line. A deprived monster of a thing – twisted and knotted with a menacingly stubby trunk.

“Secrets that beholden you, that become you like a second skin. A gnawing conscience, alive and clawing at the walls until it becomes a numbing normality,” Susan’s voice reading off her card resonating through the room – either captivating the audience or pulling them into a drowsy lull in dead quiet.

A shiver runs down Mickey’s back despite already knowing what she’s be saying beforehand like he’s lost in the pocket of frozen time. His hand draws a shrouded, hunched character kneeling before the tree with an arm reached out to feel the ground’s surface like reaching for the beating heart. Impulsively he fastens down the compartments of hidden memories, thoughts, and feelings so no one sees them.

“So you live with it like a weight on your shoulders. Doing the same thing over and over again hoping for different results. You know what that is?” Susan pauses from reading to look up, “The definition of insanity.”  

With flashcards obviously supplied to him like a script, Greg opens his mouth to read them off but then stops. His face is slightly ashen, a subdued version of himself as he speaks in a soft ramble, “You go insane under the pressure. It’s like bearing down you all at once and you’re straining so hard to just carry on but you can’t. You fall on your knees, you wanna give up. You think it might be easier once you do and you just need it to be.”

“You think it’s the end of your life, the pressure’s too much and you’re dropping all the pieces because you keep fucking up again and again. You can’t see outside of your fucking failures. All you can see are the vultures circling around you, waiting to pick you apart to pieces,” Mickey describes with his eyes partially closed, realizing himself and snapping out of it just in time to see Greg do the same.

Mickey sketch out a wake of ravenous vultures circle above and specifically one perched on the character’s shoulder, white-faced and black-feathered. A heavy burden that sinks its claws in.

Then Ian writes in a tidy paragraph above the tree:

_Scavengers of opportunity, purveyors of tragedy, the harbingers of death._

_But aren’t they are merely just the signal, the sign of an end that’s already happened?_

_Maybe they’re the comforting reassurance that the bad part is over._

_What’s left is left and a new one can start over._

With a few marks of Mickey’s green-tip pen against white board, a single leaf is added to a twiggy branch. The whole class is in silence, watching Ian write words above the character’s head – _I can hear it beating, somewhere far away. I hear it. I hear it. I hear it._

“Life is hard, sad, painful, horrible. Filled with little moments of complete shit and big moments of more shit that feel like they last forever. We all know that, just look where we live,” Greg raises his arms to gesture around him.

“We’re a bunch of kids who can count on one hand how many fucks anyone gives about us,” Susan scoffs with darkened eyes and then smiles defiantly, “But we say fuck that, we live for ourselves.”

To the left of the drawing, Mickey writes out as planned: _Hide your heart to protect it from the world_

Ian finishes the sentence on the right side of the drawing: _And it cries for the light of day._

-

The whole class felt weirdly subdued and silent for the minutes afterwards, or it’s just Mickey projection his own unease as they shuffled back to their seats. He has trouble breathing like little specks of a residual aching from as far back as childhood create little clumps of melancholy trapped in between his ribs.

Then the next presentation started up and it’s like life goes on. _Tick-tick-tick._ Except for him, an unsettling uneasiness clings to him like a horrible curse. He’s practically running up the stairs to the rooftop once the bell rings, secret key hidden in the same old crack.

The fresh air is good, the frosty cold chilling him to the bones give him clarity. Normally Mickey isn’t really one to pace, knows it’s a pointless thing to do because it only feeds his insatiable adrenaline nerves. There’s so much noise in his head, leaving their designated boxes and suffocating him. But he can’t stop fucking moving, as if he can walk away from himself if he keeps at it.

Ian is the same and yet the opposite – a withdrawn kind of quiet that’s different than the usual, but still outwardly calm and collected. At least that’s what Mickey gathers. Because it’s all too much to decipher or think clearly. He grabs a seat next to the redhead, their backs against the wall connected to the door.

Desperately, Mickey wishes he could hear the other boy talk – a voice that he can echo louder and stronger above all the noise in his head. He wants to say something, to share the sealed box holding his beating heart but he can’t. The words are choked on his throat and disappear into nothing.

Maybe Ian can read minds or maybe Mickey’s just terribly transparent and upset, but a hand guides his head to lean in so he rests against the crux of the redhead’s shoulder. The side of Ian’s chin rests against his temple after a brief nuzzle. They lace up fingers and Mickey brings them up to his cheek to feel the back of Ian’s hand against his skin.

“Sometimes it’s just shitty, so fucking shitty and messed-up, you know?” Mickey says and frowns harder, “I-I don’t know how to be anything besides shitty.”

Reaching for the notepad and pen from his pocket with his free hand, Ian takes his time writing while the brunette stays stationary like moving a single muscle is too much work.

Mickey's dull ache of sorrow is imbedded, a sad permutation impervious to change. His lonely, lonely thoughts. Rarely does he succumbs to them when most days he just says fuck-it-all and be angry and distracted instead. But now, he realizes it’s too late to retreat when his defenses are so weak, so emotionally battered. He knows he's in a dark space but now that he's fallen in, he doesn't know how to get out of his lack of self-worth.

_You're_ _the best thing that's_ _happened to me after I'v_ _e lost my family. When I lost them, I thought I lost everything. You made it okay for me to smile again. You inspire me to be hopeful again, to be okay with things mattering again. Because you're_ _my best friend. You're not shitty. You're amazing, Mickey._

What Ian gives him are words that make sentences that take an extra second for him to piece together into meanings inside his head so fractured with snippets of thoughts and memories like poison seeping everywhere. When he finally reads with awareness, the sound from inside his chest comes back to accompany him like a madman. _Thump-thump-thump._

"You're delusional then," Mickey replies with an unambiguously shy laugh that feels like it appears out of nowhere. He's unsettled by how much that means to him - the whole fucking world really.

Ian shrugs and that makes the brunette's head resting against his shoulder do a little bounce before he settles in even closer.

They already missed the school bus, the hubbub of hordes of kids piling out and then into noisy vehicles is gone. Just peace and silence. Mickey lets the sad feeling stay for a little while longer instead of burying it, feeling a bit stronger for once. He can't open all the boxes hidden away in the depths of his soul yet, but maybe one day he can and it won't be so terrible.

“I’m so fucking glad you’re here,” Mickey says and it’s a remarkably easy thing to confess, a little box opens and the shitty butterfly goes free.

Even though he can’t see it from his vantage point, Ian’s broad smile is apparent against the older boy’s temple. Almost like a glimmer of a kiss.

_Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump._ The brunette hears it clearly like a drumbeat on rapid crescendo. Except this time he can feel the other boy's own heartbeat racing by his ear. Like it's trying to tell him something but he just doesn't have the courage to understand, to unearth his heart from where it's buried deep inside.

Nestling the side of his face closer to Ian's chest, he likes the way his familiar single rhythm is joined by another to make something completely different. The beginning of a song – they can be like this for a little longer until it ends, because all do. Best friends can do this sort of thing, he convinces himself. He has no idea what Ian's thinking and he gets this persistent wish that it’s about him.

It's probably not always going to be okay but for now, it feels like it is because they're still together.

-

Mandy opens the front door before Mickey even makes it downstairs. He hears her chatting animatedly with someone and has a feeling he knows who it is because his pathetic blood-pumper is racing again. Rebelliously, he makes a pit-stop in the kitchen and grab a big bottle of soda to chug down as he strides leisurely into the living room. Every-fucking-thing is decked out. 

At a glance he notices the wispy webbing on the corners and walls with armies of nasty ass spiders (not that he’s scared or anything), bats clinging onto parts of the ceiling, black flowers in a vase with scattered petals on the table of goodies. Being a favorite definitely helps, damn the amount of effort alone makes him tired already. The brunette snorts indifferently, the party isn’t even held in here but fucking downstairs in the basement!

An exasperated groan greets him as Mandy approached him with Ian in tow, her hand a swift whack on the back of his head.

“Fuck, Mandy! What the hell?” Mickey rubs the spot briefly as he eyes her with annoyance, glancing over at Ian staring back at him and then involuntarily breaking into a smile.                    

“You bastards know what a ‘costume party’ means, right?” his sister retorts, already texting rapidly with a furrowed brow and looking very much like him. It’s the Milkovich pissed-off but determined face, standard-issue.

He and Ian both shrug simultaneously, grabbing seats on the couch as devil-horned Mandy taps her foot impatiently at them. With their knees and shoulders are touching, Mickey suddenly doesn’t mind if the snippy lecture keeps going on.

Adjusting her red tail and dress, Mandy takes a seat on the edge of the coffee table facing them like she’s the fed-up parent and it’s time for real talk, “So I talked to some of the girls and they’re really excited to meet you two assholes tonight. I only picked out the really cute ones, seriously. And they already think you guys are super amazing, you’re fucking welcome.”

Her eyes periodically glance down on her phone to reply to something but her talking continues flowing freely, “The least you could’ve done was put in a modicum of fucking effort and get some damn costumes! Now Mark is coming over with his and his brother’s spare uniforms as a favor, put those on and pretend you’re pricks who go to St. James. They’ll totally eat that shit up!”

“How are you even hanging with St. James kids? They’re so fucking rich they have gates to keep us out of their fucking school yard,” Mickey replies, hoping desperately to change the subject, “And when did you get an iPhone anyways? Mike and Kate can’t afford that, even for you.”

Mandy beams genuinely for a moment until she pulls a snarly smile, “I’m super nice, Miss fucking Congeniality, that’s why. Now you guys just need to follow the plan and everything will be perfect.”

-

Somehow Mickey finds himself semi-naked in their tiny bathroom getting changed next to Ian…who’s also doing the same. _Thump-thump._ They really could’ve done this in his bedroom where there’s actual space. Or even just fucking separately because this space is too small. But Mandy shoved them inside with the change of clothes once people started arriving.

It sort of just stayed that way, music booming in the background and excited voices chattering become muffled by the door and distance. He stays focused on himself in a corner, taking his jeans off and pulling on dark grey slacks. His own already a crumbled mess on the floor, he turns around to grab the white dress shirt.

He stares right into Ian’s bare chest and gapes at the tight, muscular skin that flexes as Ian’s buttoning up his pants. Mickey feels his mouth go dry and his heart palpitations so fucking loud in his ears. They’re literally two steps from each other and it’s almost like he can feel the heat pulsate from their bodies.

Finally Ian glances up from securing his slacks. They’re just staring at each other and the redhead’s eyes fall lower, pupils dilating into dark pools.

Mickey suddenly realizes his pants are still unzipped, hugging low on his hips and open enough for his boxers to show through. And he’s hard enough to notice, a fact probably too obvious to both of them. It’s fucking terrifying and a gratifying at the same time because the younger boy still isn’t looking away and Mickey feels himself get harder.

When Ian’s wide eyes flick up to gaze at him, the brunette is stunned by how much he wants to close the distance between them, to shove himself into the space and take over with a firm grip of his palms so their lips are touching. Because his physical reflexes are tremendously faster than his overstimulated mind, he takes a half-step forward and then stalls in torn confusion.

So Ian takes a step closer, placing his hand on the older boy’s upper arm as they breathe each other’s air.

The spot burns crimson-hot, like they’re melding into one another and it hits Mickey like a plunge in the icy waters of a murky reality. This is his best friend, his only friend besides Mandy. Sweaty and nauseous and frantic because he wants to get closer. Panic and shame jerking him back as far away as possible at the same time, his contradictory thoughts unconsciously vocalized out loud with a frustrated noise through his mouth.

That’s more than enough – Ian to retreat his hand and take a few steps back, turning to face away as he slips on the white shirt.

Mickey’s not sure if he’s imagining it but the redhead’s shoulders seem to sag more than usual and it doesn’t help that Ian’s head is lowered as he buttons up the shirt. Dread rises like acid up the older boy’s throat as it sinks in that the moment is gone and he’s done something so, so wrong.

“Ian-”

Aggressive knocking interrupts him, Mandy yelling outside above the music, “Done yet, asswipes?! There are people I want you guys to meet! Come out quick!”

So Ian opens the door, readjusting his tie to the right length as Mandy marches in with a delightedly buzzed mood. Mickey growls at the sudden invasion of space and turns away to zip up his pants before working on his shirt.

Mandy does a quick one-over with gleeful approval as Ian grabs a notepad and pen, “Thanks to me, you guys look great! Get ready for all the bitches clawing over each other for a chance! Come on, let’s get downstairs!”

They follow behind, Mickey finally chancing eye contact with the younger boy and anxiously afraid he’ll be met with rejection. But Ian is Ian, shrugging in return and offering him a lopsided smile. So he gladly returns it with one of his own, already feeling more at ease than moments before. He still has a best friend. They’re okay and he didn’t ruin anything.

But he can’t shake the feeling like he’s losing something. Something important.

-

The basement is darker than normal, illuminated by the orange and purple lights strung up on the walls. Music is on full force down here, a moderate number of Mandy’s friends fill the room with dancing and chatting in small circles.

And the punch bowl is thankfully spiked, Mickey starts off taking a generous drink out of his cup and ends up downing it in one go. He keeps going at it between being introduced to some new girl and chatting up ones he already met, the decent-sized buzz making everything seem amazingly okay. In fact, everything is fucking awesome! He takes another drink and grins some more, the sounds against his chest finally drowning themselves out.

Like an out-of-body experience and he’s just floating in obscurity, Mickey tracks the redhead out of the corner of his eye. And then there. He sees him on the couch with some blonde guy dressed as fucking Captain shitty America and they look cozy...together. Both leaning in to read what Ian writes but that’s too close and they’re smiling at each other and he hates it so goddamn much.

_Thump-thump, thump-thump._ Mickey can't deal with this, but it sinks in like a stone anyways.

His mind is spinning out of control, can’t catch up to what he’s feeling. It all becomes surreal, the brunette leaning in to the girl who’s been chatting him up nonstop and whispering into her ear. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying but it earns him a happy nod from her, a petite hand slipping into his own.

His feet work on their own volition, walking across the room with her in tow and they’re walking away from Ian and that douchebag on the couch. Oh right. He just offered to show her his room, Mickey is pretty sure he knows where this is leading. His steps up the stairs are unsteady, she helps him with an arm around his side. They make it to his room, just to the door.

A familiar figure shoves past them and directly into the room. It takes a beat for Mickey to realize it’s Ian. The redhead grabs his backpack and shoves a piece of notepad paper into the intoxicated boy’s hand on his way out.

A minute later, the front door opens and shuts with finality. He stares down at the note.

_Gotta go, see you later. Have fun with her._

Mickey vomits. Down the front of her dress and onto her shoes. There isn’t a single speck on his own clothes. She screams horrifically and runs out the room, screeching his sister’s name. Oh shit, he’s gonna have to deal with the wrath of Mandy tomorrow.

But right now, the truth hangs heavy on his shoulders. Not ever being comfortable in his own skin means always expecting the other shoe to drop.

And it just fucking dropped.

-

In the bathroom, Mickey swishes his mouth with water to get the bitter taste out and gulps down a whole glass afterwards. Then he splashes his face, waiting for clarity to come but it doesn’t. Everything is static, so fucking static. And he feels numb, so fucking numb.

A part of him wryly acknowledges how incredibly sober he is right now, how sober he’s really been the whole night. His tolerance has the benefit of a lifetime of development, spiked punch is a drop in the bucket. He wanted to be drunk, to drown the feelings he wasn’t ready to face. To drown all that fear. His barely coherent thoughts consume him.

Mistake, he made a mistake. _Undo, redo, just fucking do it right in the first place?_

More, he needs so much more so fucking badly. _How, how, how?_

Greedy, he wants to be even greedier and never let go, to clinger tighter. _Ian. Ian Gallagher. Ian Clayton Gallagher._

Us, us, us. _The fucking two of us._

With a deep breath, Mickey gazes at his reflection in the mirror and decides that’s not such a good idea. He cringes and backs out, flicking the light off and drudging himself back to his room.

And there’s Ian inside, pacing back and forth with his backpack still on.

_Thump, thump-thump, thump-thump-thump._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first evil cliffhanger! This was supposed to be 6,000 words but it grew into this 10,000-word-monster that I just had to split into two :) So hopefully Halloween Part 2 will be posted by sometime next week! Thank you SO MUCH for any comments, kudos, and bookmarking. 
> 
> I'll leave this same message in all my stuff: I get anxious and self-conscious about my writing so I have to actively work towards building up enough confidence to read/respond to comments and look at stats. So please don't be offended if I don't respond in this century, I swear I'm not ignoring you and sincere apologies. Again, thank you!


	6. Little Talks and Love Beats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: reminder to please see my tags, otherwise same warnings as previously stated 
> 
> Fyi: This chapter is definitely not edited or polished up as usual so pardon any weirdness! I wish there was more time but really wanted this monster out by today :)

Mickey is stunned, frozen at the doorway.

But that’s enough to catch the redhead’s anxious attention and they stare at each other with too much emotion to detangle. Without thinking about it, Mickey strides into the room. That alone is enough to make him breathe easier, they’re sharing the same space again.

The younger boy drops his bag on the ground and digs out a notebook, looking pissed off as he sits on the bed. There’s an expectant look on Ian’s face, his eyes peering briefly around the room.

“I know, man. That was a big fucking mistake. She, uh, left right after you did,” Mickey confesses guiltily, rubbing the back of his neck with the palm of his hand as he takes seat on the bed too, “You missed the best part, I projectile vomited all over her dress. Pretty sure I saw bits of fries.”

Ian studies him guardedly, choosing not to respond. But to the brunette’s trained eye, his expression softens just noticeably.

“I’m sorry, it’s my fault. We were supposed to hang out tonight and then things just got so messed up. I totally fucked things up and I have no idea why it happened that way. Maybe that’s just the way I am,” Mickey stares at the carpet and then over to the other boy, not sure if that makes any sense or even enough but it’s the best he can articulate.

It’s hard to know what Ian’s thinking, his head dips down as he’s irately scribbling down words. When Mickey is given the notebook, his stomach is in torturous knots not knowing what’ll be on the paper.

_That’s not the way you are, it’s the way you protect yourself. You fuck up on purpose so people will leave you first. Well fuck you, I’m not doing that. I’m not leaving._

He blinks rapidly, almost like checking his disbelieving eyes for a different reality. They burn, his vision compromised by the tiny flecks of wetness clinging onto his lashes.  

When he looks up at the other boy, Ian isn’t angry but reeling in a wounded but keen expression. Something strong swells up inside of Mickey, leaves him utterly stunned and speechless. The fear he’s been holding onto so tightly like a nasty secret revealed - his terror of being left behind. Somehow the world doesn’t end. The first waves of relief washes over him, a concealed gasp escaping his throat.

“Don’t ever leave,” Mickey beseeches like a child and then pauses for a breath, “Fuck, I don’t think I can handle it if you do.”

The note is quickly written and handed over as Ian leans in and touches the other boy’s shoulder with a squeeze.

_I’m here, Mick. Always._

“G-good,” the brunette utters and stops as the small break in his voice threatens to overtake him, lowering his head for reprieve.

With gentle fingers, Ian lifts Mickey’s chin so wet blue meets brown speckled with green. The older boy sees history, a million inseparable moments that bridge them together. They illuminate like little flurries of goodness that pave the way and then he doesn’t feel ridiculous and anxious and afraid. Going through life with clenched fists and not knowing any differently.

Until the moment that he lets go. Mickey inches forward and their noses almost touch before he veers to the side, burying his head into the redhead’s collarbone. The soothing motions of fingers running through his hair from the nape of his neck light a spark to the words that want to make their way out so earnestly. He can feel it – _thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump._

When Mickey pulls back just enough for them to see eye-to-eye again, his gaze instantly flickers down to the other boy's lips and then back up again. It's neither subtle nor lost on the redhead, who's doing the same. Ian's steadied hold on the back of his head tethers him to the moment, but neither pulls him in or pushes him away. The questions are being asked in Ian's stilled movement and it's up in the air waiting for answers.

Reading between the lines isn't so hard this time, no words needed on a sheet of paper to spell it out for him. It's readily apparent. _I want you. You want me. Does it have to be so hard?_

Looking into those eyes, Mickey's no longer sure why either. Is this clarity or insanity? He's not sure but the haunting sounds are there, loud and steady, the pulsations of his racing heart.

Ian is so earnest and so determined, but there’s one thing that betrays him. Mickey notices the shaky hands on the younger boy’s lap, the same ones from their first library meeting that changed everything. Just like that time, his fingers wrap over the top of them.

“I’m not good at this, with anyone,” Mickey admits, feeling inadequate and then nervous when their knees touch.

The redhead leans in, stopping just there and letting the moment grow. Mickey feels the warmth, it gives him the strength to cradle his palm against Ian’s neck and pull him in. Their faces tilt and line up like puzzle pieces. The nervous, giddy energy of fluttering wings makes him feel like he's about to fly and his stomach lurches.

Their lips touch softly. It feels so right. They press in, closing in any remaining empty space between them. Obviously his first one, he's shyly gentle and just that amount of awkward, his arms hanging at sides like they’re strangely displaced. The kiss is chaste, but so intimate he feels it in his bones.

 _Thump-THUMP-thump-THUMP_. It's so persistently noisy. Everyone can fucking hear it and Ian so close in proximity can probably sense his descent into madness. But he's so close to figuring it out, keys to the locked boxes at the bottom of his secluded soul.

Breaking apart is like the opposite of breathing even though, rationally, his lungs need space for some fucking air. It feels like leaving safety. He’s scared of the impending crash of reality.

Then he opens his eyes and realizes he’s encased in shelter and protection and complete acceptance. And Ian’s in just as much awe and amazement. They smile at each other so unabashedly, lighting up every dark corner of his mind like fucking Times Square on New Year’s. Without having to say a word, they lean in again and kissing the giddy grins off each other’s faces.

Mickey's hands find anchor on the other boy's neck and chest like it’s the most normal thing in the world and his heart hums joyously. Mickey ends up on Ian’s lap, cradling either side with his thighs as their tongues delve into each other’s mouths. They’re overexcited and sloppy, happily exploring the way their bottom lips taste slipping in and out of each other’s mouths. Noses smushing together, they hold onto each other until it feels like second nature to be that attached that way, until his swollen lips feel like a good type of raw.

The older boy’s very aware of Ian’s arms wrapped around his waist underneath his shirt and his own hands buried deep in messy, ginger hair. This makes his skin heat up intensively, his stomach churn with thrilling exhilaration. When Ian starts placing a trail of tender kisses along his cheekbone and down his jaw to the back of his ear, a part of him so abandoned and so starved for attention break down into pieces so inflamed and exposed like a festering wound.

The little boy lost and alone walking in the dark, a boy that hasn’t been touched and handled this preciously in a long time. That part is not dead and gone, not hiding in secret and nursing the damage like a cowering victim. Emotions too strong for him to handle, so many positive ones all at once for the first time in a long fucking time. He collapses himself into the other boy, snuggling in tightly for dear life.

Ian holds onto him even tighter, cradling his trembling body and hugging him close the way his mother used to with her faint smell of vanilla against his little nose. _He hates me so much and I don’t understand why, mommy. Daddy doesn’t love me but at least you do, mommy._

His eyelids are clinched shut to choke back a heaving sob but a wrenching whine makes its way through anyways. He’s ashamed because he can hear it, that man’s voice like evilness snaking against his ears smooth as silk before it goes in for the kill. _No, no, no, no._ Mickey shakes his head and cries harder, letting it consume him and take him to the place he’s never dared gone before – tragedy, his tragedy.

 _It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay._ He’s not alone to face it, not this time. The haunted past is there to hurt him, reaching out its rotted-meat arms to pull him back in and feast on him. But Ian’s embrace has him so tight, he won’t fall through and he’s able to breathe again. With the rhythm of Ian’s steady heartbeats, he finds the strength to confront the voice, to reject its belittling tone and hurtful words. He tunes it out, his own heart joining in to drown the motherfucker out of existence.  

When his eyes stop leaking tears, Mickey flutters open his eyes and close them again as Ian lightly presses two more kisses on his eyelids. In the darkness, he sees more boxes flipping open and the butterflies escaping free – he sees them in vibrant technicolor before they disappear and it’s pretty amazing.

-

The two boys are lounging lazily on the bed, Mickey’s head resting on Ian’s lap while they pass notes back and forth. His eyes are still red and a little puffy but he’s not embarrassed. A little shy yes, but not like he’s literally dying from the shame. Because Ian would never make him feel that way.

Noisy footsteps make their way out the front door and the music from downstairs vibrating from downstairs turns off completely. It’s only eleven but the party is over. Mandy probably wanted everyone gone before Kate and Mike are back. Clear out the drunk kids and keep her pristine image, she’s definitely a sneaky-as-fuck Milkovich. Mickey approves.

A generous bowl of candy rests on the brunette’s stomach as he sorts out the worthy chocolate bars from the other inferior filler crap. He rips a mini Snickers bar open and satisfactorily chomps off half before holding the rest up to Ian’s mouth for the final bite. The radio’s on playing stupid Halloween songs but he kinda likes it anyways, it fits their irrelevant mood.

“Full moon outside, don’t you have somewhere to be?” Mickey comments with a playful grin, staring up at the redhead, “Is that your grand secret? You’re a fucking werewolf that goes off in the middle of the night to a deserted field to get naked and transform?”

An unamused stare only entices Mickey to start up a boisterous round of howling and then snickering.

Ian stops sketching in the blue notebook with annoyance and immediately starts tickling him on the sides with rapid-fire. The candy goes soaring as the bowl flips over, not even a deterrent as Ian continues his attack. The older boy’s laughter is unrestrained, veering into dangerous shrieking territory before he finally dodges out of the way. Mickey ends up in a sitting position with a firm grip on the other boy’s wrists. His victory claimed with a smack of a kiss, sweet and chocolaty.

At the top of the page, the redhead writes something out before handing the whole notebook over.

_You taste good._

The drawing is from Ian’s vantage-point view with Mickey looking up from his lap, the older boy surrounded by empty candy wrappers and a sly grin as he’s peeling open a new piece.

“And with zero the calories,” Mickey laughs and kisses the redhead again, lingering this time.

Sounds of the front door unlocking and noisy clunking up the stairs means they’re not gonna be alone much longer. They separate and catch their breaths, sitting side by side instead.

-

“Nice one, fuckfaces!” Mandy’s singsong voice drifts in as the bedroom door opens, “Pilfering the bowl of candy we left outside for the trick-or-treaters! See, I totally called it!”

Mike and Kate are also standing there, back from their own Halloween party, dressed as salt and pepper shakers. Ian gives a quick wave while Mickey groans in embarrassment.

“Hey, boys!” Kate smiles through her greeting, pretty buzzed and bubbling with barely contained giggles, “It’s getting late, you should just stay over for the night, Ian. I don’t want you walking around this late, it’s dangerous!”

The redhead nods and smiles his appreciation.

“Like not using a raincoat when it’s raining, right boys? Very dangerous!” she hiccups and staggers, grabbing onto her husband's arm, "Tell 'em, Mike! This is your turn and honestly I told you to do it BEFORE the party, you asshole! I talked to Mandy last time so it’s only fair. Look, I even started for you!"

There's a wicked grin on Mandy's face as she licks her lips with a hip leaned against the doorway. Mike couldn't turn a worse case of red as he looks at no one in particular. Blowing a misaimed air kiss to the room, Kate stumbles down the hall after patting her husband on the butt.

Mickey catches Mike’s glance by pure accident and their eyes both dart away to study the walls. Like that time he forgot to lock the bathroom door and the old man walked in on him masturbating before school. No, just no.

“I think they got it, Mike. Condoms good, unprotected sex bad. Right, kids?” Mandy pipes in, having had her fun already, “You and Kate should head to bed first, I’m gonna put the leftover food away and crash too.”

“Goodnight, sweetie,” Mike grins fondly when Mandy kisses him on the check, back to familiar territory as he looks to the boys like he wants to say something but ends up with a firm nod, “Mickey, Ian.”

Once Mike is gone, Mickey lets out a sigh of relief. He’d take that over an awkward sex-ed conversation any fucking day.

“You two are total assholes,” Mandy states with arms crossed, a knowing smirk on her face, “But I guess that’s how you like it. Next time just tell me so I don’t waste my time, yeah?”

“The fuck you talking about?” he questions his sister suspiciously, glancing down to his clothes and over to Ian’s to see if anything’s out of place. Nothing, no red flags.

“Don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner, you two, it’s so obvious now. You like who you like, that’s all that matters,” Mandy replies with a sweet smile before it contorts to laughter, “And Mick, you fucking owe me for Chrissy, I promised her kissing not vomit! This is her first party, first week moving here!”

“Oh fuck, tell her sorry about that,” Mickey shrugs sheepishly as his sister starts cackling and Ian joins in silently as he jots something down before holding it up.

_Welcome to the neighborhood - this is a shitty place!_

“The city thanks you for your services, Mick!” Mandy cackles, “She’s great, I let her borrow one of my dresses and that definitely made the boys notice her. Don’t think she misses you too much, bro.”

Mickey shrugs again, just glad it’s over.

“Well, you assfaces still up for some fun or what?” Mandy lights up like she’s suddenly inspired, texting on her phone rapidly while the two boys glance at each other.

“Wha-”

“Meet me downstairs in fifteen, I need to clean up the party crap really quick! And be quiet about it!” Mandy commands decisively.

Right before she ambles out of the room, she nods affirmatively at the open notebook sitting out in plain sight depending on the right angle, “I really like that one, Ian.”

Ian offers a confused expression at her retreating form, not quite getting the hint yet.

Sighing, Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose and stares at the empty space that was his sister, “The hell just happened?”

The two boys stare at the offending thing splayed precariously on the floor by the bed – the drawing. Mickey's vision darting to the empty space that once contained his whole family before ending up on Ian again. He's not sure who cracked first but they both break into hysterical laughter.

Per his usual cleaning standards, Mickey scoops up and dumps whatever candy’s on the bed back into the bowl. The ones on the floor are less lucky, just a few sweeping nudges of his foot will land them under his bed. Until Ian gets in his way with a raised eyebrow and a hand on the other boy's stomach, stalling his movement.

"What?" Mickey responds as the redhead smacks him on his tummy before moving him out of the way.

Hunching down, Ian gathers the fallen pieces and the brunette enjoys the view for a few more appreciative seconds before he crouches to help out, "Fine, fine, fine, fucking Cinderella here!"

Ian smirks, stopping his current efforts to jot something down.

_Evil stepmother?_

"Does that mean I get to order you around?" Mickey smirks back and holds the bowl out, "Clean up this mess, firecrotch!"

Nodding in acknowledgement with a raised middle finger and the corner of his mouth curved up, Ian tosses a piece of candy at Mickey in retaliation. It lands in the older boy's lap after bouncing off his chest. Mickey unwraps the hard candy and pops it onto his tongue before it ends up a lump on the side of his cheek.

Smiling lazily back, the brunette makes a suggestion, "We don't have to go with Mandy if we don't feel like it, she talks all bitchy but she's a total softie."

There's a moment where Ian's just staring at him with fondness like he's implying that it takes one to know one. Like how he feels inside when he thinks the redhead is extremely sweet and endearing and it's extremely weird to know anyone might think of him in that way. The realization makes him start to blush so he glances away briefly and clears his throat distractedly.

Tugging his jacket on, Ian scribbles down some words on the notepad.

_Afraid of a little fun, Mick?_

“You fucking wish, Gallagher,” Mickey retorts and gets up to step closer, tugging the jacket zipper back down every time the other boy tries to pull it up.

Ian rolls his eyes and grins as they start a messy tug-of-war with the zipper handle tab. With a sudden drive push, Mickey gains the upper hand as the redhead stumbles forward and their faces hover in close proximity. They linger on each other, a game of chicken that amplifies their hyperawareness of each other. A good kind of tension that buzzes like a million honeybees that sets their skin on edge.

Mickey’s so eager and excitable, unable to distinguish whether he wants to attack or kiss the redhead. So he does both, grabbing Ian’s face with the palms of his hands and directing his uncontained energy into their lips smashing together with clumsy fervor. The younger boy’s surprised groan is eaten up by the voracity of their competitive desire to get closer first, to kiss deeper first.

Like two puppies circling around each other for the first time and can’t stop trying to crawl on top of one another with hasty paws but not knowing what else to do after that. A sensory overload that’s messy and so real that it makes everything else faded shades of gray. They run out of breath and separate, skin flushed with a rosy color and mirroring panting grins.

-

“Wow, fuck you guys for making me wait!” Mandy playfully shoves the two boys from behind after they walk far away from the house enough for the sound to not carry, “And fuck me for being as considerate as to not barge in and interrupt!”

Ian wraps an arm around her petite shoulders and gives it a squeeze, leaning in and touching heads briefly as his apology. Her arms wrap around and hug his torso with an energetic hop and skip as they slow down to a stop at the main street corner. Shoving his fingers deep into his coat pockets and leaning against the stop sign, Mickey watches his two favorite people in the world and his heart floods with something that makes him wanna fucking laugh and smile forever.

A taxi pulls up to them and stops, idling the engine.

With an eyebrow wiggle, Mandy opens the front passenger door and slips in, “Come on! We got a fancy party to crash!”

They pile into the backseat and Mickey’s suspicions mount as he overhears where they’re headed, the fucking gated community of Evergreen Pines. Yes, the place and people are just as pretentious as the name promises. It also means serious trouble for street kids like them found lurking around there. A lot of pockets get fatten up in high places for the extra protection, especially with bonuses coming up around the end of the year.

“Mandy, what the fuck we doing going there? You planning on spending the night behind bars?” Mickey asks exasperatedly, not liking the idea immensely.

“Relax your tits, it’s totally fine!” Mandy dismisses with little care, the backlight on her phone illuminating her face as she texts rapidly.

Shrugging in response, Ian takes out the small notepad and writing sloppily with guidance from the street lights flooding in intervals.

_I’m pretty good at running and hopping fences._

Mickey stares at the redhead’s grin and has trouble hiding his own emerging and turning into a full-fledged one. Happy, he feels it. Then he really just goes for it, slipping his cold hand into Ian’s and intertwining the two. No one’s paying any attention to them in the back anyways, it’s too dark.

 _So it’s okay, everything is okay_ \- he tells his nerves even though this would be the moment for things to come crashing down. Too good to be true for long. He starts to think so. But Ian places their clasped hands onto his lap so his free fingers can play with the older boy’s tattooed knuckles and Mickey starts to feel so. How can this be wrong? He shuts down the residual bad feelings.

The car eases to a stop at the front gate and the driver rolls down his window.

With a charmingly disarming smile, Mandy greets the muscular man examining the passengers with a close eye, “Good to see you back, Andy! Heard your wife just had the twins, congrats!”

“Thanks so much, Miss Milkovich! Two girls, looks just like their mom thankfully!” the sturdy security guard socializes with genuine delight, then changes his gaze inquisitively to the two teenage boys in the back, “You guys here for the party?”

Mandy cuts in with an explanation, “Yes and we’re running super late already! These two are Mickey and Ian, they go to school with Karen and they were nice enough to stop along the way to pick me up too. I hate riding alone this late at night, always be safe!”

The guard meets eyes with Ian and then Mickey, the moment quiet and tense as his scrutinizing gaze falls lower to the uniform button-down shirt peeking out from their coats and the gray slacks.

Bursting out into a hearty laugh, Andy presses the button for the gate to open, “You boys don’t put much effort into costumes, do you? Most of you guys just showed up in the school uniforms and the girls are all dressed up! Well, have a fun night!”

When the car drops them off in front of the biggest and grandest house on the block, Mandy strides up the steps just in time for the door to swing open.

An energetic blonde in an angel costume bounds out and into Mandy’s arms, the glittery halo and wings wiggling animatedly with her body. They touch lips chastely and then his sister beams happily before grabbing the girl for a more intimate kiss.

“The fuck?!” Mickey exhales to no one in particular, just shocked and confused. Like tonight wasn’t already weird enough and Ian’s blooming grin doesn’t help.

“This is Karen Jackson and she’s my girlfriend,” Mandy declares proudly as the two of them playfully swing their entangled arms back and forth, “Sweetie, these two dorks are Mickey and Ian!”

Karen gives them a sweet look but her eyes sparkle deviously, “Finally in the flesh, I could just eat you two up! How’d operation score-some-pussy go? I wanted to be there but my dad made me stay around for their party so I can be paraded around to his friends, show off his little darling trophy.”

“Fucking father of the year, right?” Mandy responds with a comforting bump of their shoulders together.

With dawning realization as his brain finally catches up, Mickey sputters confusedly, “So you and her..? Wait, but you date guys! What..?”

With an endearing smile, Mandy steps forward and takes her brother’s hand, “I guess we both haven’t been talking with each other much lately.”

They settle down on the front steps because, honestly, he needs to sit for a fucking minute.

Rather than the world crashing at his feet like usual, it’s flipped and doing fucking cartwheels down the street. He stares at the elaborate pebbled walkway in front of them, catching his sister’s raven hair that they share out of the corner of his eye. He suddenly remembers the wispy strands on her little head as a child and he’s also a child being followed around.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mickey solicits with a quick glance around out of habit, but it’s just Ian and Karen by the door engrossed with each other.

With a squeeze of their clasped hands, Mandy grins gently, “Why didn’t you?”

The older boy’s heart swells up with affection at how cautious and guarded she looks, like a direct reflection of his own hidden insecurities. It’s unsettling, the idea that he’s not so fucking alone in his destructive thoughts and especially someone so close to him.  

Mandy lets out a nervous giggle, gazing away as she confides, “It’s stupid, I guess I just didn’t want you to judge me or look at me differently. And I never want things to change between us. You and me, we have each other until fucking forever. I wanted to tell you so bad, I just didn’t know how to start. Mickey, I’ve always liked both boys and girls. I’m bisexual and Karen is too and, well, she makes me really happy.”

Glowering with a heavy frown, Mickey rests his free hand on her neck and lean their faces close together, “Mandy, I would ever judge you. As long as you’re happy, that’s good enough for me. You’re always going to be my sister no matter what and I’m always going to be your dumbass brother. Got that?”

“I love you too,” she replies and breaks into a precious smile.

Mickey fondly runs a knuckle down the bridge of her nose and gets up, decidedly turning to spit on the perfectly manicured lawn. His sister tackles him with a tight hug and he briefly lifts her like they used to do as kids playing. When they pull apart, Karen and Ian are communicating with each other spiritedly with the help of the notepad.

“So the uniforms didn’t work like a charm with the girls?” Karen asks with a pout of her pink lips and a creased forehead, “Thought for sure that one was in the bag!”

“It’s not that your idea didn’t work, they’re just more into each other than the girls,” Mandy says nonchalantly as she follows the blonde back inside the house.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” the older boy retorts without real bite, stopping in his step when he notices Ian crouched on the ground tying his shoe, “We’ll follow in a minute!”

Leaning from one foot to the other and feeling strangely displaced, Mickey bites the corner of his bottom lip, “So much fucking crazy shit, huh?”

Ian looks up and nods, pulling the loop through the hole and tugging the double-knotted laces tight before he stands up facing the other boy.

It takes Mickey a moment to put words to what he's feeling, wanting them to trickle out instead of condensing into armored walls inside of him. Maybe it's really stupidly naive but he always believed she was too young to really remember, too far removed to carry the heavy baggage of a broken childhood. But believing even for a second that he would ever view her like some pierce of unworthy trash. There it is, that damn trademark low esteem rooted in humiliation and rejection. She carries it too, just differently than him.

"My sister, I thought she was shielded from our piece of shit dad's fucked-up rambles," the brunette pauses in sad contemplation, "His opinions were always loud and horrible, felt like every word breaks your spirit just that bit more like chipping off pieces of yourself. I lived in his shadow thinking one day he'd finally like what he saw. He never fucking did."

The redhead brushes a dark hair back from Mickey’s temple, tracing a line down his cheek and to his chin to tilt his face up. For a moment, Ian looks like he wants to say something. His mouth opens and then closes, the struggle evident on his expression. The battle is lost. But Mickey doesn’t care, really just in awe at the attempted effort. That _he_ means enough for something like that.

For Mickey, that’s all it takes. Ian is the goodness in himself that outweighs every negative fucking thing he used to believe - being with another boy can’t be wrong, not when it makes him feel this way. Hopeful and alive and free. He has something better than fearing the shadow of a man who never cared about him. Instead he looks at Ian to confirm the belief in his own strength, the calm in the middle of an impending storm.

They touch noses and smile at each other and Mickey feels so okay right now, okay with things being fucking decent. More than decent. The muffled music streaming out of the partially open door reminds them to go inside and Mickey hides his smitten grin as he leads into the foyer.

His sister and Karen are sitting on the grand staircase and it’s quite a sight – an angel and a devil. He can't help but think it's pretty fucking awesome. Mandy looks happy and self-assured and that's all he wants for her.

“Holy shit, whose place are we crashing anyways?” Mickey asks with raised eyebrows.

Everything looks fucking expensive; borderline ridiculous with sleek marbling, Grecian statues, and painted high ceilings.

“Welcome to the Jackson household, our humble abode,” Karen smiles with a wave of her arm and gets up, “My mom's latest obsession. She went online and traced her ancestry to one-sixteenth Greek, hence well everything. And my dad’s just a douche who inherited money so he golfs and pays people to wipe his own ass.”

Mickey lets out an impressed whistle, glancing over everything with dollar signs that add up inside his head. Of course Ian steps closer to study the hand-painted Gods striking poses from amongst the clouds.

“Their party is upstairs,” Karen explains, “Mine is to the left but I’m pretty fed up with seeing people from my school. Let’s go down one more floor.”

“Okay Mom, I’m going to study for my pre-calculus test until you’re done. Just let me know,” a young female voice echoes from down the hallway as the footsteps get louder.

Rounding the corner, a familiar classmate comes to an abrupt stop with arms laden with school books. They all stare at her, Susan Nafie.

“What you doin’ here?” Mickey vocalizes in surprise.

Ian elbows the brunette and offers a friendly wave.

She responds with a shocked expression, tapping her fingers agitatedly against the book spines, “I…I…”

“Susan and I practically grew up together,” Karen explains with laid-back ease, redirecting the attention on herself, “Her mom started working for my parents a few years back. Oh that’s right, you guys do go to the same school, small world! And this is my girlfriend, Mandy.”

“Hi there!” Mandy greets cheerfully and then adds with a pointing gesture, “And that asshole over there is also my brother. We’re heading downstairs to hang out, you should come along!”

“Thanks but I have a test to study for,” Susan answers automatically and her face drops in disappointment.

With a roll of his eyes, Mickey gives a shit-eating grin, “Don’t you know? It’s fuck Pre-Cal day.”

Ian scribbles something down quick and holds it up with a nod.

_National holiday._

“No stupid party people that you hate, just us celebrating fuck Pre-Cal day and watching some movies,” Karen says with a giggle, “You should definitely join us!”

Susan looks tempted but also conflicted, hugging her books tighter, “Okay...sure.”

“Fuck yeah, fuck Pre-Cal!” Mickey exclaims as they all follow Karen down a different hallway, always glad to inspire a little anarchy, "And how about you really stick it to the man and let me copy off of you next week? Dummy here's in geometry, totally useless to me-"

"Okay okay. You're the smartass who tested out of English and into mine!" the older boy laughs as Ian invades his personal space and hovers over him with an _oh really_ smirk, "But you still suck at numbers!"

Ian just nods and places his hands on the other boy's shoulders with a tender squeeze before he turns Mickey around and shoves him playfully further down the hallway.

The rest follow after the brunette boy walking backwards and childishly sticking his tongue out, bumping into an Athena statue in the process and landing on his ass. They all join in the laughter, even Susan who’s been stiff and worried up to that point.

“Seriously fuck you all!” Mickey proclaims amidst the noise, grabbing the redhead’s offered hand to help him back up.

Mandy shouts back with gusto, “Love you more, Mick!”

There’s a newly established sense of comfortable silence as they amble along, relaxed around each other.

“Just to let you guys know, my mom’s the maid here,” Susan declares suddenly, voice noticeably self-conscious but also defiant, “She cleans for a living and she does it well and it supports her children and I’m proud of her.”

“Our different foster home fuckers rarely worked, sat on their asses as the checks rolled in. She sounds fucking awesome,” Mandy replies and the boys nod in definite agreement.

Letting out a hasty breath, Susan smiles back at them, “Thanks, she is.”

Temporary relief from the constant pressure of feeling both prideful and ashamed, Mickey understands it well. Hating having to justify to the world why they're in shit-infested hoods surviving like rats while simultaneously just wanting to be fucking accepted.

The five of them pile into the elevator and they end up in a lavish personal theater room draped with red curtains and highlighted with gold fixtures. Black leather recliners line up in four rows of four. The blonde moves behind the bar, pouring mixed drinks for all of them. Ian holds up a note.

_You’ve got to be shitting me._

“This is fucking unreal,” Mickey agrees and takes a generous gulp of his Jack and Coke, “Our family movie nights are nothing like this.”

Mandy chortles, settling into a chair, “Yeah, we’re lucky if the TV doesn’t overheat and shut off on its own.”

“My parents are never down here, dad’s always too busy hanging at the county club and mom’s too claustrophobic to be down in the basement floor,” Karen sinks in the seat sideways and wedges her feet under the side of Mandy’s thigh.

“The whole fucking place to yourself, damn that’s sweet,” Mickey responds with another glance around.

“Well just me and the nannies and sometimes Susie,” popping the cherry from her drink into her mouth, Karen adds with a sly grin, “It’s a pretty awesome place for watching porn though.”

Ian holds up his notepad.

_Five feet dicks? Sounds lethal._

“And hugely educational!" Karen supplements delightedly.

“Learning is the gateway to our young people’s future success!” Susan recites the school district administrator's tagline, the one recently caught stealing funds for underprivileged kids.

The room pulses with into cacophonous laughter and they click glasses with each other before drinking.

Karen claps exuberantly, passing around a dvd case, "We have to watch One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, it’s a tradition I do every Halloween yeah?”

“Yeah, definitely!” Susan hoots, obviously a light-drinker and already buzzed.

"The guy from The Shining messing shit up, sure thing baby," Mandy replies and kisses the other girl on the cheek.

Mickey responds distractedly, busy readjusting his chair and leaning back with a gratified sigh, "Jack Nicholson is a fucking badass, let's do it."

Ian raises his glass and nods in agreement, doing the same. The blonde whoops as she dims the lights and starts the movie.

Reflective images from the giant screen paint dancing colors against the redhead's skin and Mickey's mesmerized. It's so dark anyways so he reaches over and holds the other boy's hand, watching the lights dance across them.

-

“Goodnight, don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Mandy says on her way out, closing the door with a click before her muffled whisper adds, “but you’re welcome to bite each other!”

“Oh my God,” Mickey rolls his eyes and sinks onto his back on the bed, feeling exhausted but beaming up affectionately at the redhead currently writing.

_Your family loves you so much._

That makes Mickey frown, he’s not so sure about that and it’s not something he dares thinking about at all if possible, “Okay, Doctor Freud. Do you charge by the hour? Cause I’m fucking tired, can we go to sleep?”

Ian grins and kisses him in response. That makes him feel lightheaded and exuberant, like the tangled mess of knots in his stomach never existed. He lightly slaps the redhead’s thigh and gets a shove in return before he hops off the bed. A torn-out scrap of paper makes it into Mickey’s hand.

_Dibs on Thor!_

Immediately, they’re both digging through his dresser for pajama bottoms and t-shirts, snatching what they like and crumbling into a mess what they don’t.

And they’re both acutely aware of each other’s presence again as evident by the looks that constantly pass between them, but different from earlier in the bathroom. It’s not so much sexual as giddy excitement, grabbing and shoving each other even though it doesn’t really matter to either of them who wears what.

Mickey doesn’t have to sneak glances like usual and apparently neither does Ian. But he starts feeling flustered staring for too long and become too self-aware of the fact that they’re undressing and _could_ be having sex. It scares and exhilarates him at the same time, how does it even work outside of porn? Yeah it’s fucking lame but he has no idea. Staying a virgin is easy when just staying alive is an actual priority. So instead he focuses on the now.  

It's Ian triumphantly donning Thor on chest with eyes like pools of liquid happiness only for him to witness and it’s so…special. He doesn’t deny his instincts and deprive himself of this moment. He bunches Thor’s printed face in his fists and pulls Ian into another kiss. For all his aggressive bravado, when their lips touch it’s sweet and warm like a lazy afternoon.      

Everything is the usual, but way better. This time they don’t bother with the notes. Some things don’t need to be said out loud. And they’re both exhausted. Mickey’s eyelids feel heavy in a drowsy contentment sort of way. They face each other, his head on Ian’s pillow because, seriously, screw his own.

The raven-haired boy doesn’t want to fall asleep, but each blink is more sluggish than the previous one and his last thought is a happy one.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I received some great news this week (yay!) and am in the process of transitioning things in my life. There's only four chapters left in this story (awww), my goal is to have them posted periodically from now through December between my busy times. Thank you SO MUCH for any comments, kudos, and bookmarking. 
> 
> I'll leave this same message in all my stuff: I get anxious and self-conscious about my writing so I have to actively work towards building up enough confidence to read/respond to comments and look at stats. So please don't be offended if I don't respond in this century, I swear I'm not ignoring you and sincere apologies. Again, thank you!


	7. Hook, Line, and Sinker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: the same as previously, also please check the tags. 
> 
> And, oh yeah, there's probably typos/mistakes/general weirdness that I didn't catch but damn it, I want this all posted soon :)

“Hey,” Mickey pushes off from the wall and walks with his boyfriend down the hallway to English class, nudging Ian’s particularly withdrawn shoulder with his own, “so did the good doctor find all the loose screws?”

That earns him a one-sided grin and a brush of their fingers as Ian passes him to grab a seat in the back. Mickey slides into the one next to it and kicks his feet up on the desk, his backpack already an ignored lump on the ground.

Teach isn’t even in the room, probably off on another alcohol run. It’s fucking Friday, no doubt she’s out of the week’s supply, hence this free time to “work on their projects.” Right…the project. Well they’ve spent basically every waking and asleep moment together so that’s like one component of it. As for the rest, well making out is still personally higher on his list than schoolwork that’s not due in an hour.

“December’s still a long way off anyways,” Mickey reasons to the redhead with his eyes closed and his arms behind his neck stretching out the kinks.

He waits for the sound of a notebook dropping down in front of him, a signal that Ian’s responding. But there’s nothing. When he looks over, the side of Ian’s face is rested on the desktop looking dull and defeated.

The whole room is an obnoxious mess of noises. It’s the last class of the day and it’s a fucking zoo in here. No one’s going to pay any attention to them. Mickey rests his own head down on the desk so they’re facing each other and then he smiles softly. Ian returns the sentiment, just sadder.

Sometimes the other boy is sad and Mickey understands the feeling completely even if he’d personally rather turn it into mad instead because it’s more bearable that way. What he doesn’t understand is why, it’s buried too deep inside like Ian’s voice, it’s a secret. They all have their own demons.

So they spend the rest of the hour just like that, watching each other as the world moved rapidly around them.

The bell rings.

-

The landscape transforms before Mickey’s eyes gradually and in a steady blur, the truck going eighty miles an hour on the empty freeway. Dull, black numbers on the dashboard displays 9:59 from his spot in the backseat with Ian. In the front, Mike’s fingers tap a steady beat on the steering wheel as Willie Nelsen plays softly from a tape cassette.

It took convincing but he finally acquiesced to Kate and Mandy’s dogged nagging if not just to stop their constant bitching. Now here he is going on a damn trip into the fucking wilderness. This is probably gonna turn out to be a horribly bad decision as more trees begin to filter into the passing scenery. At least he’s not alone.

Music streams into his right ear adding random soundtracks to his current surprisingly decent mood, a carefree sort of Friday night laziness. Ian starts twirling the earphone wire connected to the mp3 player; a shitty, clunky, outdated thing that has a faded 'Iggy' etched into the side.

A hand-me-down, one of many but this one was special, it was still nice and fairly new at the time Mickey received it. The last thing he ever got from his oldest brother. It’s stupid but he can still remember random details like the dirty bandage on Iggy’s arm and a split lip sporting a cigarette as his brother offered up the thing with this half grin, saying without saying that things were shitty but maybe not every moment had to be that way. A faint smile graces Mickey’s face, he likes remembering that.

Caught up in his own world, Ian frowns out at the window when he catches his reflection staring back. The wire's absent-mindedly wrapped around his index finger in numerous loops, the tautness digging into his skin. As the next circular wave of his finger gathers wire like a spool, an earbud plops onto his thigh. The song keeps playing. Ian stares at it for an incomprehensible second before snapping out of his daze and peering over at the other boy.

Mickey offers a grin, one obviously loaded with concern. But Ian doesn't want to talk about it. Well, he can’t. He can’t articulate it, can’t think about it, can’t keep going on if he lets the feelings take over. His headspace is weird, he can’t decide whether he wants to be alone or just desperately cling onto someone for the warmth. Whether he wants to scream at the top of his lungs for the world to hear or hide somewhere especially dark to disappear completely. It isn’t easy, constantly having to be okay with himself.  

Glancing towards the driver’s seat at the back of Mike's graying head, Mickey wants to say something but it’s not exactly like he can just openly ask. He knows the look, a bad memory sneaking itself to the forefront like a sneaky, persistent bastard. And just depressing as fuck because the past is unchangeable. Mickey leans further back into the seat and spreads his legs open wider so their ankles are touching. Not much but it makes the redhead soften up at the other boy’s semi-public display of affection. Well if Mike isn’t totally oblivious, that is.

Instead Ian grabs the earbud and places it back in the other boy's ear, tugging on the lobe briefly in a reassuring gesture. Then he’s back to staring out the window again, lost in wherever his thoughts are trying to take him lately. Ones that were previously too hard to approach before but at least now Ian doesn’t feel scared shitless, just a standard scared. And just maybe that won’t last forever.

-

Music keeps playing for the next two hours as they move further into Stevens County of wooded forests and hillbilly delights. Their truck passes by a dispersed cluster of cabins and eventually to a stop in front of a particular one.

Mike kills the ignition and hops out, clearing his throat roughly as the boys join him, “This is the Johnson family cabin, passed on for generations. Beautiful construction, all done by hand, true craftsmanship! There’s nothing like this anymore, shortcuts and drywalls and shoddy work.”

Before they can even comment, Mike is walking on and signaling them to follow behind with their packed bags slung over their shoulders.

“Feel it, just put the palm of your hand there and feel that natural white pine beneath your fingers,” Mike stops at the front porch to gesture to the wall, sighing in gratification, “Absolute perfection!”

Mickey starts running his hand across the wood after Ian does and stares curiously over at the older man who rarely talks this emotively, “But you’re in construction, you build houses, and you hate the modern stuff? Sounds like you’re in the wrong business, man. Wrong era too. Oregon Trail’s about two hundred years ago, pioneer.”

“Wiseass,” Mike replies with the barest hint of a grin and clears his throat again, “Hate is a strong word. Maybe sometimes nostalgia just makes things seem better than they actually were. And it pays the bills after all.”

He opens the door and strides inside, leaving Mickey and Ian to share a shrug before they follow in too.

It’s quaint and small with homey touches like a knitted throw on the couch, generational family pictures hanging over the stone fireplace, and vases of dried flowers sitting on top of crocheted dollies. The walkthrough is brisk and minimal per Mike’s usual demeanor, listing off the living room, a kitchenette, a bathroom, and two bedrooms.

"You two can take this one, there’s already two beds,” Mike explains before he leaves for the other room, pausing to add, “Sleep early, we meet out front at four a.m. and not a minute late.”

The door shuts with a click, footsteps moving away and then silence.

Mickey tosses his bag on the bed on the left and grabs the pillow before he settles his ass on the other one, "That early to catch some fucking fish, can you believe it?"

Ian smiles, dropping his backpack onto the other boy's lap and zipping it open to riffle through. Grabbing his notebook and flashlight, he flicks the light off before also sitting down on the twin bed.

_Sounds crazy. Never fished before though._

“Me neither,” the brunette exhales as he kicks his shoes and socks off before leaning his shoulder against the other boy’s, “So you doin’ alright, man? Earlier in the car.”

He holds the flashlight as Ian writes.

_I was remembering something I forgot all about for the longest time._

“Oh yeah? What was it?” Mickey asks softly.

_There was this one time, my brother_

The redhead pauses in indecision until the older boy places a reassuring hand on his forearm. A reminder that if someone so hardened and suspicious of the world could open up, then so could he. Or at least try. So he starts writing and the words flow out of him hasty and messy and painful.

_Lip was so fucking happy because Frank promised he was gonna take the two of us fishing back before there was even Debbie. It was a fucking cliché - Lip waiting on the doorstep early in the morning, all packed and ready to go with this big smile on his face. I didn’t even bother, just kicked a can around on the ground while Fiona kept staring out the window at us._

Ian rips off that page and gives it to the brunette to read, continuing on a new page.

_He refused to make eye contact with anyone, just stared at the street waiting. When night time arrived and Fiona called us in for dinner, Lip wouldn’t fucking move from his spot. I stayed with him. We ate sandwiches Fiona forced into their hands, well him more than me. I pretended not to see the stray tears that dropped onto the plate on Lip’s lap._

The second page makes its way into Mickey’s hand as the circle of light illuminates both the already written words and the ones inking across blank canvas.

_Instead I just talked. A whole fucking lot about nothing, probably more than I’d said all week. After a while, he started responding again. Fiona knew just to let us stay there for the night. We froze our asses off until the sun rose again. Never fucking again, Lip swore. Just like that, the stars were stolen from his eyes. We shared a smoke and Frank showed up drunk a week later._

With a derisive laugh, Ian is hit with a tragic frown as he writes more.

_I miss them so much, all my brothers and sisters. But a really fucked-up part of me even misses Frank and Monica. Because I screwed up WORSE than even they did._

Mickey shakes his head adamantly as he finishes reading the last page, his fingers gentle on the other boy’s arm, “What happened back then? It’s okay, Ian, you can tell me. It’s okay.”

_I_

The paper crumbles in Ian’s grip and becomes a tight ball on the ground. He tries again, pen tip posed to write. 

_I called_

Ian scribbles over the two words until they’re completely blackened out and he still can’t stop. Like they’re still haunting him.

When Mickey grabs ahold of the redhead’s hand, he realizes it’s tense and shaking even as it struggles against his grip to keep darkening those words out of existence.

“Hey, hey, Ian, relax. I got you,” Mickey murmurs and coaxes the pen away.

The singular beam of light pointed to a random part of the wall, the flashlight having rolled out of his grasp moments ago. Ian’s nose digs into the brunette’s cheek, his eyes plastered shut. Mickey buries his fingers into the other boy’s hair, raking through the strands in a soothing gesture.

_I did it._

A tiny whisper. Just a figment of Mickey’s imagination.

_I-I did it._

A persistent whisper, so strange and yet instantly familiar.

_I did it, Mick._

Like a sound he’s heard before in a different form, disguised in everyday noises.

Then Mickey realizes the other boy’s mouth resting against his neck is moving, making words. Talking _talking fucking talking_ , anxious and frantic and choppy. But it’s fucking real. Even if it feels like a dream.

“I did it. I did it. I really fucking did it,” the voice is quiet desperation, a guilt-ridden whisper, “It was me, it was me, I did it!”

“Ian, Ian, slow down, it’s alright. Tell me what happened, start at the beginning,” Mickey touches their foreheads together briefly before pulling back enough to hold the other boy’s face with his hands, “Breathe.”

The redhead shivers, moonlight peeking in from the partially open window curtain hitting the irises of his grieving eyes. Like a valve that’s come undone, the secret words spill out of him at rapid speed.

“Frank and Monica were back together, they told us we were gonna be a family like the ones in the Christmas commercials. The two of them selling their usual brand of bullshit, fucking toxic with their horrible schemes and ideas that are total shit for the rest of us to try and clean up afterwards.”

“Fucking Southside gold standard,” Mickey murmurs in commiseration and holds onto the other boy a little tighter.

“During one of their drug stints, they took Liam with them and left him at a fucking park until a neighborhood patrol cop noticed him alone,” Ian lets out a tired sigh and breathes in sharply with his eyes closes for a moment, “Monica and Frank stayed away for a while, too high to even care. When they ran out of drugs and money, that’s when Frank came crawling back alone and angry as hell to be locked out. No one really cared, bark more than fucking bite. Children’s Services came by and picked us up, did separate interviews with us.”

Mickey nods, donning the typical drained silence of every child who knows what it’s like to be ripped away by strangers from his or her home.

With a heavy scrawl, Ian mutters, “It was Frank who made the phone call, that was fucking obvious. I was so angry, so fucking angry! Didn’t think straight, I was in such a rage during my interview. I said so much, so fucking much! And I shouldn’t have and it just came out, all our dirty laundry. Our shitty parents, our shitty situation, our shitty lives.”

“Ian-”

“I didn’t mean it, not really! I couldn’t control my feelings but it was too late. It was all written down, on the fucking record. Usually I would never say anything, I can do that, just hold it all in, push my problems to the bottom. Family first, Gallaghers first! But I messed up so bad, that one time, that one fucking time!”

“That’s not-”

“And it cost us everything, MY testimony damned us! They took us away from Frank and Monica, they permanently split us up, they really did it! Fiona, Lip, Debbie, Carl, Liam. Fucking Frank and Monica. I never saw any of them again. It’s been so long, what if I forget their faces? They should forget mine!”

It kills Mickey hearing the way Ian’s voice break at the end and the fact that the redhead could actually believe that his family would be better off erasing him from existence. Then he thinks about his life without Ian’s existence and the thought alone makes him feel inconsolable. But he doesn’t know how to articulate all that and he’s lost his moment as the other boy continues frantically rambling.

“Talking is what got me into trouble. I never talk and then I did. It’s when everything turned to shit. If I stop talking, nothing will go wrong. I just gotta stop talking. If I had just stopped talking back then, everything would still be okay. But it’s too late, too fucking late. I don’t know what to do now. Idon’tknowIdon’tknow.”

“Hey, hey, hey. That is not on you, Ian. Look at me,” the brunette runs his thumb along the other boy’s cheek to wipe away the cascading tear, “You were only a kid, you all were. Frank and Monica did this, not you. They constantly fucked up and they didn’t give a shit. This is on them completely. Not you, Ian. You hear me?”

But Ian is lost in his own torturous guilt, shaking his head and choking back a sob, “Being alone, I deserve this. I caused this, I deserve this. Consequences, gotta deal with the consequences. Worse, I deserve worse! But this already hurts so much, I can’t- I don’t- how-”

“Ian. You deserve better. So much fucking better! It’s not your fault. You have to believe me, it is not your fault. We’re kids with fucked up parents living in a fucked world. That’s not who we are though. Isn’t that what you’ve been trying to show me? I’m still having trouble fucking believing it most of the time. But being around you, it feels so true so it must be, right? You’re more than one moment, more than a mistake, more than shitty parents!”

"You really think so?” Ian asks in his most child-like voice, full of innocent hope.

“I know so. Only thing I’m really fucking sure of lately. Can’t go backwards, there’s just forward,” Mickey answers matter-of-factly and steadily turns red as he ventures forth with what he wants to really say, “And standing still. If you need to, you just gotta tell me and I’ll stand with you. Don’t push backwards. It only hurts. Living sometimes is even harder, isn’t it? You don’t have to do it alone. I-I’m here, if you’d like. If you want. Or whatever.”

“Thanks, Mick,” Ian smiles widely with his wet face, caught unawares at the spoken sentiment before adding, “I’d like that a lot.”

With an automatic response so fucking cheesy, Mickey prevents the words from coming out of his mouth but it doesn’t stop his thoughts to linger on them – _I like you more._

-

Mickey is perched on the closed toilet seat lid, nudging the other boy’s hip with his fingers and grinning in anticipation as he requests for the umpteenth time, “Say something else!”

“Come the fuck on, Mickey! Just hand me my toothbrush!” the redhead obliges with an eye roll and smiles winningly when the brush lands back in his fingers.

Leaning over the sick and vigorously brushing to minty freshness before spitting it out, Ian splashes water on his face and dries with a quick swipe of the towel. He glances over at the happy human lump stealing looks at him while squeezing toothpaste on his own brush. Not subtle at all.

With a sweeping stare, Ian trades places with the brunette, “You’re looking pretty good for four in the morning, Mick.”

“So what are you gonna do about it, Gallagher?” Mickey quips with a mouthful of foam and the toothbrush sticking out the corner of his lips.

Ian tugs on the other boy’s boxers so they hang lower on his hips and then pulls away with with a cocksure grin, getting up and walking pass to open the door, "We're gonna be late, Mike's probably already waiting outside. Come on!"

"Fucking dick!" Mickey retorts to the retreating form and laughs, "How are you even already dressed? Go ahead, I'll meet you out there."

He looks in the mirror and realizes he’s beaming. It looks so foreign to him but it feels so decent, better than decent. This time, it’s not so bad staring at his own reflection. He never knew what it meant – _a smile reaching your eyes_. Now it seems so obvious, there it is.

-

When Mickey steps outside, Ian and Mike are already there with their backs to him with fishing gear in their hands and the rest on the ground by their feet. Pulling the hoodie on, the brunette joins the group as they walk in silence down a winding trail for the next half an hour.

His feet is sluggish, moving on autopilot as he rubs his drooping eyes for the umpteenth time. The fucking birds start chirping at some point, like little bitches intent on annoying the shit out of him. He whacks at random tree branches along the way until Mike stops in his tracks to look at him in aghast.

“Right, right, trees are our friends, wood is precious, blah, blah, blah, kumbayah,” Mickey recites with annoyance, snapping a twig poking at his foot with a hefty stomp.

Ian smiles with amusement, using the handle end of his fishing pole to poke the other boy, “Someone’s a grumpy morning person.”

With a surprised cough like he’s just choked on his own saliva, Mike stares at Ian for a prolonged second. Mickey feels protective of the redhead, fearing ignorant questions and judgmental comments. Adults rarely had anything good to say to him. He’s fine with that, but not when it’s directed at someone he cares about. That’s fucking off-limits. So he takes a step forward, rearing to be on the instant defensive. His fists are clenched, an old habit to chase away the nerves.

“What are you looking at me for? He’s talking about you, you old grump,” Mike replies nonchalantly and turns around, starting to walk again, “Come on, let’s keep going. We’re headed towards that clearing just up ahead.”

The leaves and twigs quietly crunch as the old man keeps walking. Mickey unclenches his hands and exhales as he continues staring for an extra second. So used to confrontations, especially from adults, that his body doesn’t know how to deal with the lack of unease. _It’s okay, everything is okay. For once, is it really?_

As Ian moves past, he runs the tips of his fingers across the brunette’s stomach and tows him along by the pocket when he doesn’t move. Infected with a warm grin, Mickey starts moving his legs too.

The two of them break through the last of the foliage and into the opening, a shimmering pond lit by moonlight cradled by giant rocks and tall grass still stubbornly growing despite the cold. It’s a perfectly chilly, picturesque morning.

“Well shit,” Mickey says with a low whistle, then looking over just in time to see the light hit the redhead’s relaxed, felicitous face. That does it for him, the release that allows him to enjoy the moment.

Ian nods in agreement, “This view is beautiful.”

“Best spot in the whole damn state,” Mike declares approvingly, “Especially since most dumbasses don’t know about it yet.”

They park their butts and their gear on the rocks, Mickey hunching into himself in response to the frosty air. Mike goes into extensive detail on the beauty of natural worm bait and the mechanics of a fishing pole like it's so complicated beyond being a fucking stick with wire. Real dry, boring as fuck information told in a droningly factual tone. But Mickey doesn't mind, in fact he's actually listening. Ian looks just as attentive. It's calming to just listen, a sort of encasing serenity like the water's untouched surface.

Not everything sinks in but a surprising amount does. When the poles are actually in their hands, Mike barely has to adjust their fingers into the correct positions with a satisfactory nod at the result. After the initial cast off, they sit there for the next forty-five minutes just waiting. It’s awkward, at least to Mickey that is. That’s why he avoids things like this, he supposed to chit-chat or some shit? Pretend to be father and son and act out those cheesy movie moments? That ain’t reality.

Mickey feels his residual good feelings slipping like grains of sand between his fingers. There’s nothing to catch them, to keep them within grasp. That’s the trade off, happiness is great until it’s gone. A sad thought, it lingers. It feeds on him. He’s losing himself in it and part of him just wants it to bring him back to that familiar pit of darkness. The rest wishes he could just look Mike in the eye, but that might reveal his pathetic desperation to be accepted. This trip was probably as much forced for Mike as it was for him, even more so by his own estimation.

“Is today a special day?” Ian breaks the silence and Mickey just likes the sound, enough so to not realize the question.

With a silent stare, Mike doesn’t say anything for a beat before replying, “What do you mean?”

“The date etched onto the handle of the pole Mickey’s using, same month and day, but thirty-five years ago,” Ian points out, running his thumb pad along the other boy’s wrist briefly.

Mickey smiles softly at the gesture and zones back into the conversation.

“That was my fishing pole,” Mike answers, staring intently at it, “My mom took me out here for the first time. The whole family’s always gone to the cabin, but it was just the two of us after my father left a month before that.”

“I didn’t even want to fish, just wanted to stay in my room and be fifteen and angry, hate the world, hate myself for chasing him away. She wouldn’t let me, pointed to that day’s date etched in and said it was a brand new start for us. Things might never be perfect but we were going to make the best of it. She was right. We didn’t need him after all.”

“Where is she now?” Mickey asks genuinely curious, this is the first he’s heard even heard mention of this.

Mike smiles proudly, “She was one tough woman, fought the cancer an extra year longer than expected. She died five years ago, never got to meet you guys. That was a shame, she always loved the neighborhood kids.”

“She sounds wonderful, really wish we met her,” Ian responds and the brunette nods in agreement after the delayed slack-jawed expression dissipated from his face. The old man never talked much, not like this, not about losing a mother. Mickey feels his chest ache just thinking about his mom.

Mike gives yet another rare smile, “Every year on the same day, the two of us came back here and she taught me all about fishing. It’s a skill and a work of art, boys. You already see the beauty around you, now you gotta experience it.”

Flipping open the red plastic cooler, Mike passes out the cans of beer and pops one open for himself. He takes the first drink with a loud slurp and lets out a contented sigh, “The best part is actually the waiting.”

“I’m down for that,” Mickey glances over at the old man and they share a brief look of understanding. He touches the etched numbers on the handle with his fingers. To moms.

Mickey gazes over at Ian and the redhead smiles brightly. The light hits the side of his face from behind and it’s stunning, the brunette beams wholeheartedly in return. Leaning back, he drinks from his beer leisurely.

Fucking finally! Ian jumps up and starts reeling in the catch. Mickey whoops as the fish flaps in the air and Mike chuckles.

_-_

“Mike won’t be back for a while, consulting for that house is gonna take hours,” Mickey with a final bite of his sandwich, prodding the other boy with his knee.

Ian pauses from munching on a potato chip, turning to face the other boy and rocking the porch bench holding the both of them, “Heavy duty study session?”

“Hell no,” Mickey retorts instantly, eyes floating downwards towards the redhead’s lips, “Something better.”

Grinning widely, Ian leans in closer, “Math? A little History? Some English?”

“Oh shut up, asshole!” the brunette laughs and turns his head to the side to whisper into the other boy’s ear, “You done here? Cause I definitely am.”

“Yeah,” Ian breathes out and watches as the older boy jump up excitedly.

“Come on, Gallagher!” Mickey hovers over the redhead and sways like electrons bouncing off of each other, “Off your ass!”

Nodding his head, Ian stands up and automatically towers over the noisy boy with playful eyes, “Ready when you are.”

Mickey stares up for a prolonged second, just enjoying their proximity to each other, before grabbing Ian’s hand, “Let’s go.”

Of course Ian stops to grab their dirty dishes and drops them in the sink first. Rolling his eyes impatiently, Mickey helps out and follows behind. And, well, the view ain’t too bad after all. He stares appreciatively and smirks when Ian looks at him inquisitively.

With a click of the door lock, it’s just the two of them inside. The bed is small and Mickey likes it that way. He raises an eyebrow and grins right before bringing his face close to Ian’s but not quite touching, his eyes dropping briefly downwards and back up again to study every micro-expression. Especially as his fingers trace the zipper on the redhead’s jeans teasingly before popping open the single button.

Ian’s pupils dilate progressively wider as the brunette tugs the zipper down and then stops for a torturous second before reaching in to cup the palm of his hand over boxer fabric. His grip is a practiced tease, soft foreplay as he gives a squeeze and Ian lets out a huff of frustrated impatience. The younger boy grabs ahold of Mickey’s face and presses their lips together before trailing nipping bites along that pale neck.

Letting out a quick laugh, Mickey slides the palm of his hand underneath the boxer band and relishes the vocalized hiss as he starts stroking. He separates from Ian’s kisses against his collarbone and drags the redhead’s jeans and boxers off with one objective in mind. Ian is quick to lift his shirt over his head before helping the older boy out of his own. That’s as far as the redhead’s able to get before Mickey pins him down.

The brunette licks a line from Ian’s chest downwards, past his bellybutton and along his left hipbone. When he swallows Ian whole with widened lips, the other boy’s hips jerk at the sudden warm, wet sensation. Mickey’s head bobs at a steady rhythm and his throat emits a nice hum that makes the redhead start to buckle. Mickey goes faster, his fingers hard at work massaging where his mouth doesn't reach and lower.

A firm, thick swipe of his tongue against the underbelly drags out a desperate groan and his one hand on Ian's hip is joined by the other boy's grip overlapping his own fingers, squeezing. With a shudder and tightened muscles, the redhead comes with an audibly drawn-out grunt.

Mickey shallows and wipes the corner of his mouth, moving back upwards and hovering over Ian for a second before being dragged into a kiss. His body collapses on Ian’s as their mouths open up to each other and the redhead rolls their entangled bodies so he’s now on top, out of breath as they separate just barely.

The feel of their naked bodies completely flush is warm and comforting like going home after a long trip. Sweaty skin-against-skin is also fucking hot and exciting, Mickey feels himself so fucking hard as the other boy presses another searing kiss against his lips while a hand slides teasingly further down his torso and grabs ahold.

“Your turn,” Ian grins happily and nudges the tips of their noses together.

Mickey stays blissed out for an extra second before gripping the redhead’s arm to stop his strokes, eyes determined as they stare at each other, “Let’s try it.”

With his mouth hanging slightly open with anticipation and concern, Ian rests the palm of his hand on the older boy’s chest, “Are you sure?”

“Are we gonna chit-chat about our feelings for the next hour or are we gonna fuck?” Mickey retorts with a wide smirk, arms folded behind his head.

Ian rolls his eyes and places a chaste kiss to that snarky mouth, “Who said romance was dead? You really have a way with words, Mick.”

“I’m a regular Romeo,” Mickey replies as the other boy’s digging through his bag for the lube and condoms, “A rose by any other name and all that shit.”

With a snort, Ian tosses both things onto the bed before climbing back on himself with lanky limbs resting all over the brunette, “Are you gonna read poetry to me now? And why am I Juliet?”

“Nah man, you’re Mercutio. Screw that Juliet bitch, we gonna hang around the marketplace and cause some fucking trouble,” Mickey laughs, tickled by the mental image of the two of them dressed in tights and welding swords.

The redhead beams at the idea because that’s pretty much the equivalent of roses and chocolates for Mickey Milkovich, then he realizes wistfully, “That’s our last book, we might actually pass English after all. It feels like ages ago when we were failing!”

“Just the project left and then we’re fucking golden,” Mickey agrees contently, generously eyeing the other boy up and down as his tongue darts out to moisten his dry lips.

In that moment of reminiscing, Mickey feels infinitely…blessed for this. He’s never felt that way before when cursed is much more familiar but it’s strangely easy to recognize something he’s never felt until now. Blessed to be right here right now, blessed to be alive. Ian’s voice is his guiding light, calling out his name. He lets out a low groan when the other boy’s lubed-up fingers begin stretching him out, slowly and carefully.

Ian presses a few kisses along the brunette’s collarbone and sucks a spot raw, glancing up through thick lashes, “Wait. You realize Mercutio bites it cause of fucking Romeo right, asshole?”

“Not in our version, man, ” Digging his fingers into the mess of ginger hair, Mickey rubs the back of the other boy’s head and flutters his eyelids shut as the palm of Ian’s hand start massaging his butt while the other is scissoring him open.

“Hurry the fuck up, Gallagher!” Mickey eventually snaps and whines at the same time, insides a wound-up ball of tenseness.

When Ian pushes into him and then pauses, the two of them let out shaky breaths against each other’s cheeks as they acclimate to the overwhelmingly strange sensation of being so…together. Their tightest hug, their most probing kiss, it’s still nothing like this degree of closeness.

As Ian picks up a steady but cautious rhythm, Mickey holds onto the redhead’s flexed arms for anchor and to add a hasty, reckless speed to their movements.

“Fuck, Mick!” Ian groans and clenches his jaw as he adjusts his angle to push in even deeper, clutching the older boy’s thighs harder.

Mickey’s toes curl up when Ian hits just the right spot over and over, drawing whimpers out of his reddened lips and he’s leaking so badly all over the redhead’s fingers stroking him fast and sloppy. Ian’s low grunts against his earlobe follows his exhilarating high as he comes hard all over his own stomach.

With a few more thrusts and the way the older boy clenches around him, Ian follows close behind, emptying himself with a few last jerks. He flops half on top of Mickey with a fond brush of his lips against the other boy’s cheek and intertwining their legs together.

“Damn good for our first go,” Ian says after a few breaths, eyes sparkling.

With a lazy grin, Mickey responds smugly and laughs, “I’ll be here all day, Gallagher.”

“Pretty sure I was doing most of the actual work,” the redhead teases back and continues prodding the squirming boy on the sides.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Mickey manages to blurt out as he grabs hold of Ian’s wrists and gestures towards his stomach, “You’re making a mess of, well, my mess!”

His faux grumpy words only elicits a smitten stare from Ian and then he’s returning the look with one of his own. He’s even obediently still as the younger boy wipes his skin clean and, well, watching his naked boyfriend walk off to the bathroom for the towel is a bonus.

The sunlight peeks in through the cracks of the pulled shades on the window onto parts of their sweaty, sticky skin that Ian starts tracing with his fingers like a paintbrush. Warm and soothing and familiar touches, Mickey smiles as the smell of pine and the two of them fill his senses with a carefree lightness.

Yeah, they have to get up soon. But not right now, not for this moment.

-

The car hits a few small bumps on the gravel before they make it into the main road again. It's a slow Sunday afternoon as they make their way back home, Mickey doesn't even mind the long drive right now. Not much will bother him, he's in the sweet zone of a relaxed, don't-give-a-fuck mood. The good kind. It goes without saying really, he prefers to default to being one lazy motherfucker whenever possible.

Ian flips through the song list, indecisive about staying on one and changing to another within seconds.

"We actually gonna listen to something or what?" Mickey asks with a laugh and an elbow nudge.

"Trying to find one," Ian answers with a slight frown, pressing onto the next song already, "You know that feeling like you can kinda hear it in your head, like a memory that's reallly fuzzy, and you can't really remember which one it is even though you know it from somewhere at some point?"

Before Mickey can answer, the truck comes to an abrupt stop as the breaks squeal against pavement. There's a half-naked man stumbling barefoot from the side into the road just ahead of them, the word _LOSER_ painted in red across his back.

Mike rolls down his window and sticks his head out, "You alright there? Do you need any help?”

Not a man, a kid. A familiar one, commonly known as _the dick_. Greg pauses mid-waddle and turns to Mike with grateful relief, then he notices Mickey and Ian in the backseat. With a grimace, he fruitlessly tries to cover the word scrawled across his chest with crossed arms - _PUSSY._

"Can you give me a ride back into the city?" Greg asks while his face turns a deep shade of red to match his irriated eyes, shifting from one foot to the other in just his socks.

"Sure, just get in the back with the boys," Mike replies after an inquisitive pause and gestures with this thumb.

Greg glances to the front passenger seat completely filled with fishing stuff and backwards towards the open trunk is filled with a shitload of construction equipment and paints, severe disappointment hits his face as he grabs the back door handle and pulls it open.

Scooching over to the middle, Ian makes room for Greg to slump into the seat in an embarrassed lump and shut the door. Mickey raises an eyebrow when the redhead returns his side-glance and they both silently agree that whatever happened was harsh, even for Greg the fucking dick.

With a resigned sigh, he grabs his sweatshirt stuffed behind him and drops it onto Ian’s lap.

Looking back at the brunette with obvious adoration, Ian grins and continues staring unwaveringly as he gathers it in his hands. Breaking into a sheepish smile, Mickey stares out the window to hide how much he likes the attention. Ian silently offers Greg the sweatshirt. There’s a pause before the trembling boy takes the offering and slips it on.

They ride in silence as Greg gradually stops shivering from the cold.

"What's your address, son?" Mike inquires and spares a second glance at the rearview mirror when there isn't an answer.

"You can just drop me off at the school," Greg finally answers when even the boys start watching him, turning splotchy red in the face again.

Mickey snorts and rolls his eyes, "Just give your fucking address, I ain't gonna come by and beat your bitch ass. Even though really I owe you one, we got business we still gotta settle."

With a grimace and a firm jaw, Greg shakes his head, "The school's fine. I can walk."

"You don't have any shoes," Ian points out, "It's better if Mike just drops you off at your house."

"I'm not going home!" Greg declares in a frenzied panic and catches himself, clearing his throat and putting on his douchey voice of overconfidence, “I mean, it’s like all chill, man. I’m not expected for a while anyways, gonna head back later in the night. Got things to do, roll out and take care of business.”

“Who you avoiding?” the brunette asks point-blank and rhetorically because no kid around these parts ever answers that question, “Your dickface brothers, dumb and dumber?”

The resigned look on Greg’s face says more than enough. Of course it is. Apparently they’re around for a visit. The Wilson brothers still have a notorious legacy at school for being football jocks back in their day, sadistic and cruel as fuck. Greg is the runt of the family, constantly struggling just to stay on the team.

“Fuck, the Wilson brothers are yours?” Ian replies as the realization hits, that last name is so common anyways and they really look nothing alike, “Even I’ve heard of them and I didn’t grow up around here.”

“Everyone has,” Greg grimaces and stares into blank space, “Don’t matter, they’ll be gone again after today.”

Mike pipes up decisively, “Two choices, I drop you off at a friend’s house or you join us for dinner and I drive you back home later in the night.”

“Kate’s cooking is pretty fucking amazing,” Ian adds with a shrug while the brunette narrows his eyes at sudden change of pace.

Gobsmacked, Greg openly stares back at them for the first time today like a deer caught in headlights and making it painfully obvious he’s crying.

Feeling suddenly generous, apparently being thoroughly fucked will do that to you, Mickey sighs and gruffly offers an excuse for the village idiot here to accept, “We got fucking fish in a cooler that need to get home, really ain’t gonna wait for your ass to be dropped off somewhere.”

“…s…sure, okay. I guess I’m alright with that,” Greg mumbles and darts his eyes to the people in the car for a quick second before turning even redder, “My friends’ parents make shitty food.”

There’s a moment when Mickey thinks of a snarky comment but it only takes a glance at the dickhead’s dirty, bare feet to drown out the words. Forced to show embarrassing vulnerability to the world, it’s a shameful punch to the gut. Ian understands too, the shared look between the two of them says it all. It shouldn’t be this way. Something needs to be done. But in a place like this, they have no voice.

So now they’re having the little bitch who called Ian a fag over for dinner, just great. Mickey sighs, he must be going soft. The redhead grins at him. Like fluffy clouds floating along a clear blue sky soft. Shit, that’s such a gay thought. He feels something suspiciously like happiness on his face, now that’s a scary thought.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been forever! I got incredibly sidetracked and this is loooong overdue! For the sake of finishing this story relatively soon and my lack of time lately, I am condensing everything down to eight chapters instead of the originally planned ten. So this means only one more to go, probably a longish one to wrap everything up! It won't be pretty or perfect, but at least complete :) For your patience and your continued interest, THANK YOU!!
> 
> A fun teaser: the last chapter is called "Romeo, Mercutio, and the Gang Says Merry Fuckmas!"
> 
> And thank you SO MUCH for any comments, kudos, and bookmarking. You guys are amazing and I adore you to pieces. 
> 
> I'll leave this same message in all my stuff: I get anxious and self-conscious about my writing so I have to actively work towards building up enough confidence to read/respond to comments and look at stats. So please don't be offended if I don't respond in this century, I swear I'm not ignoring you and sincere apologies. Again, thank you!


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